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 during his last term at Oxford. Kitty Clive was her name. She was of Irish extraction, and possessed all the charms, the impetuosity, and the fire of her countrywomen.

Hal fell head over ears in love with her, but for a long time he was a great deal too shy and too diffident of himself to tell her the fact. It was impossible for him to believe that beautiful Kitty could love so dull a fellow. This was his way of putting it. I was in his confidence from the first, and at last, I am glad to say, I induced him to put his fortunes to the test. He did so falteringly, and was amazed to find that Kitty adored him.

They were married soon after, and took up their abode at the old Manor House at Chartelpool, to be the delight and solace of the old Squire's life. He was an old man and a widower, and Hal was his only child. He survived the marriage exactly ten years, and then he died. I was present at his death-bed, for it was one of Hal's failings, or perhaps one of his weaknesses, to regard me as the best medical man of the day.

On this occasion, however, I was powerless to stay the hand of death. The Squire breathed his last in my presence, and I accompanied Harold when he laid his father in the family vault. On the night of the funeral I noticed a troubled expression on my friend's brow. I inferred, and rightly, that it was not only caused by sorrow at the loss he had sustained.

"What is it, Hal?" I said, suddenly. "You had better unburden yourself, old fellow."

"I mean to," said Harold, "although, perhaps, I oughtn't to bother you."

"What concerns you never bothers me," I retorted.

"Well, it's just this: my father on his death-bed spoke with great regret, and even bitterness, about the fact of our having no heirs to carry on the property. To tell the truth, I never bothered myself about the fact of our having no children. Kitty and I are all-sufficient to each other, and it was not until my father said something about the entail, and about the nature of the man who will inherit Chartelpool Manor whenever I die, that I saw the thing in a serious light. Kitty and I are married ten years now. We have no children, and are never likely to have any. Whenever I go, the place and the property descend to a man whose character and antecedents are as bad as bad can be. You have heard of Charles Stanhope, have you not, Halifax?"

"Rather!" I replied. "You don't mean to tell me that dissolute fellow is the next heir?"

"It is true; 'pon my word I never realized the fact till my father spoke to me, and until his death and the reading of the will to-day put the whole thing in a clear and forcible light. Well, well, this is the sort of matter that no man can cure, and I only wish that I had not bothered you about it, Halifax."

I was silent for a moment, for in truth there was nothing to say. Then I uttered a few commonplaces, and presently the conversation was turned.

I went to town the next morning, and Stanhope and his affairs passed more or less out of sight in my own busy life. Judge, therefore, of my pleasure and astonishment when, about eighteen months afterwards, I received a telegram with the Chartelpool mark on it. It contained these words: "Wife doing well. Fine boy arrived this morning."

The next day I got a long letter from my delighted friend, and was in due course asked to the christening.

I was too busy at the time to attend the ceremony, but as Hal also insisted on my standing sponsor, I told him that he must get a proxy to take my place, and sent down the handsomest silver-gilt mug I could purchase, to the heir of Chartelpool.

Months and even years passed by, and in the increasing duties and increasing interests which came in my way, I forgot Hal Stanhope and his joys and sorrows.

I had just taken a small house in Harley Street, was comfortably established there, and was looking forward to the possibility of extensive changes in my own ménage, when, entering the house late one winter's evening, I was suddenly confronted by the gaunt face and tall figure of my old friend Stanhope. My consulting-room was brightly lit up, and Hal's travel-stained face and intensely anxious expression seemed quite out of keeping with the neat room.

He rushed up to me when I appeared, and wrung one of my hands frantically.

"Thank God, you've come at last," he said, in a broken and hoarse voice. "I took the liberty to ask your servant to put up a few things in a bag for you. If we start immediately we shall be in time to catch the 6.30 train to the north. Come along, Guy, old man—I'll carry the bag, and we can walk down to the nearest cab-stand."

"No, no—what does this mean?" I exclaimed. "Are you out of your senses, Harold? We can't possibly rush off in this