she had some hope of moving him from his set purpose by her prayers and tears.  Step by step, and clinging to the hand-rail for support, for her limbs scarcely obeyed her will, she descended the stairs, stood a moment in the passage, listening like a frightened hare, and then opened the parlor door.  There was no one within it:  yes, upon the hearth-rug lay the motionless form of Mrs. Basil; she was lying on her face; and, rushing forward, Harry knelt down beside her, and strove to lift her in her arms.  Some instinct seemed to forbid her to call for assistance.

“What is it? what is it?” gasped the old woman, looking vacantly up in the other’s face.

“You have been unwell, dear madam.  I am afraid you have had a fainting fit; but, thank Heaven, you are better now.”

Harry was truly grateful; first, that her original suspicion had proved to be unfounded; secondly, that Mrs. Basil was alive.  She had contrived to place her in a sitting posture, with her back against the heavy arm-chair; and now she brought a carafe of water from the side-board, and sprinkled her face and hands.

“Let me call Mary, and we will get you up to your own room as soon as you feel equal to the effort.”

Mrs. Basil’s eyes had closed again.  Her face was white and stiff as that of a corpse; but she shook her head with vehemence.  “The door—­lock the door!” she murmured.

Not without some hesitation, for she began to fear that her companion was wandering in her mind, Harry obeyed her.  “Get me into my chair.  Oh, why did I ever wake to weary life again!”

“What has troubled you?  Can any new misfortune have happened to us?” inquired Harry, woefully.

“To you—­no,” answered the old woman, with sudden fierceness; “to me—­yes.  Do you see that letter?” She pointed to one lying beneath the table.  “Twenty years ago that would have been my death-warrant; but now I am so used to suffer that, like the man who lived on poisons, nothing kills.  Read it—­read it.”

The letter was an official one; the envelope immense, with “On her Majesty’s Service” stamped upon it, and out of all proportion to the scanty contents, which ran as follows: 

     “LINGMOOR PRISON, December 22.

“MADAM,—­I am instructed by the Governor of this Jail to acquaint you with the sad news that your son, Richard Yorke, is no more.  Four weeks ago he escaped from prison by night, and took refuge in an adjoining wood.  His body was discovered only four days ago, and an inquest held upon it, when a verdict was returned in accordance with the facts.  I am, Madam, yours obediently,

     “THOMAS SPARKES (for the Governor).

     “I am instructed to inclose a locket with miniature, which was
     found upon your son on his arrival here.  The rest of his property
     will be forwarded by rail.”

This locket contained the little picture of Harry painted by Richard himself, and which, though he had contrived to secrete while at Cross Key, had been taken from him at Lingmoor.