It was a large and spacious apartment, this library of Kingsland Court, dimly lighted now by the flickering wood-fire and the mellow glow of a branch of wax-lights.  Huge book-cases filled to overflowing lined the four walls, and pictures precious as their weight in rubies looked duskily down from their heavy frames.  Busts and bronzes stood on brackets and surmounted doors; a thick, rich carpet of moss-green, sprinkled with oak leaves and acorns, muffled the tread; voluminous draperies of dark green shrouded the tall, narrow windows.  The massive chairs and tables, fifty years old at least, were spindle-legged and rich in carving, upholstered in green velvet and quaintly embroidered, by hands moldered to dust long ago.  Everything was old and grand, and full of storied interest.  And there, on the wall, was the crest of the house—­the uplifted hand grasping a dagger—­and the motto, in old Norman French, “Strike once, and strike well.”

It is a very fine thing to be a baronet—­a Kingsland of Kingsland, with fifteen thousand a year, and the finest old house in the county; but if Death will stalk grimly over your threshold and snatch away the life you love more than your own, then even that glory is not omniscient.  For this wintery midnight, while Sir Jasper Kingsland walks moodily up and down—­up and down—­Lady Kingsland, in the chamber above, lies ill unto death.

An hour passes—­the clock in the turret and the buhl toy on the stone mantel toll solemnly one.  The embers drop monotonously through the grate—­a dog bays deeply somewhere in the quadrangle below—­the wailing wind of coming morning sighs lamentingly through the tossing copper-beeches, and the roar of the surf afar off comes ever and anon like distant thunder.  The house is silent as the tomb—­so horribly silent that the cold drops start out on the face of the tortured man.  Who knows?  Death has been on the threshold of that upper chamber all night, waiting for his prey.  This awful hush may be the paean that proclaims that he is master!

A tap at the door.  The baronet paused in his stride and turned his bloodshot eyes that way.  His very voice was hollow and unnatural as he said: 

“Come in.”

A servant entered—­the same who had gone his errand.

“The Reverend Cyrus Green is here, sir.  Shall I show him up?”

“Yes—­no—­I cannot see him.  Show him into the drawing-room until he is needed.”

“He will not be needed,” said a voice at his elbow, and Doctor Parker Godroy came briskly forward.  “My dear Sir Jasper, allow me to congratulate you!  All is well, thank Heaven, and—­it is a son!”

Sir Jasper Kingsland sunk into a seat, thrilling from head to foot, turning sick and faint in the sudden revulsion from despair to hope.

“Saved?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Both?”

“Both, my dear Sir Jasper!” the doctor responded, cordially.  “Your good lady is very much prostrated—­exhausted—­but that was to be looked for, you know; and the baby—­ah! the finest boy I have had the pleasure of presenting to an admiring world within ten years.  Come and see them!”