had gone down again to his study, and almost at the same moment she heard the little private outer door of that room open; some one went out, and then there were hurried footsteps along the shrubbery-path.  She thought, of course, that it was Mr. Dunster leaving the house; and went back for Mr. Livingstone’s letter.  Having found it, she passed through her father’s room to the private staircase, thinking that if she went by the more regular way, she would have run the risk of disturbing Miss Monro, and perhaps of being questioned in the morning.  Even in passing down this remote staircase, she trod softly for fear of being overheard.  When she entered the room, the full light of the candles dazzled her for an instant, coming out of the darkness.  They were flaring wildly in the draught that came in through the open door, by which the outer air was admitted; for a moment there seemed no one in the room, and then she saw, with strange sick horror, the legs of some one lying on the carpet behind the table.  As if compelled, even while she shrank from doing it, she went round to see who it was that lay there, so still and motionless as never to stir at her sudden coming.  It was Mr. Dunster; his head propped on chair-cushions, his eyes open, staring, distended.  There was a strong smell of brandy and hartshorn in the room; a smell so powerful as not to be neutralized by the free current of night air that blew through the two open doors.  Ellinor could not have told whether it was reason or instinct that made her act as she did during this awful night.  In thinking of it afterwards, with shuddering avoidance of the haunting memory that would come and overshadow her during many, many years of her life, she grew to believe that the powerful smell of the spilt brandy absolutely intoxicated her—­an unconscious Rechabite in practice.  But something gave her a presence of mind and a courage not her own.  And though she learnt to think afterwards that she had acted unwisely, if not wrongly and wickedly, yet she marvelled, in recalling that time, how she could have then behaved as she did.  First of all she lifted herself up from her fascinated gaze at the dead man, and went to the staircase door, by which she had entered the study, and shut it softly.  Then she went back—­looked again; took the brandy-bottle, and knelt down, and tried to pour some into the mouth; but this she found she could not do.  Then she wetted her handkerchief with the spirit, and moistened the lips; all to no purpose; for, as I have said before, the man was dead—­killed by rupture of a vessel of the brain; how occasioned I must tell by-and-by.  Of course, all Ellinor’s little cares and efforts produced no effect; her father had tried them before—­vain endeavours all, to bring back the precious breath of life!  The poor girl could not bear the look of those open eyes, and softly, tenderly, tried to close them, although unconscious that in so doing she was rendering the pious offices of some beloved hand to a dead man.