to the railway-station, and starts off by a train just leaving for Eastown.

Very few people are in the train at that hour; he has the whole of a first-class carriage to himself; and there, with his eyes closed, he tries to realize his position.

He never once notices the rapid motion of the expresstrain that bears him along; never once glances out at the smiling country, and the sunny harvest-fields near which he passes. He cares not where he goes or what happens, for his despair is that of a reckless, desperate man.

These are but a tithe of the thoughts that whirl through the bewildered brains of the luckless squire, in the lonely railway-carriage, as the train bears him rapidly on his journey. Tom's prevailing desire in life was to be rich and great. For this end he had stopped at nothing-honour and integrity had been sacrificed in many ways.

True, his contrivances had appeared to succeed at one time-all seemed turning out according to his wish-but now his greatness is shrouded up with a cloud; his fickle treasures are about to elude his grasp; the "gold and fine gold" is slipping beyond his reach again.

His life, and not Ralph Burges', has been the "wasted life" after all.

He has never tried to do good with either his money or his influence; has never given to the poor; never sought to ease the aching heart, or fill the hungry mouth; never in all his prosperity remembered Him who says, "The silver is mine, and the gold is mine."

The wildest and most incoherent fancies float through his distracted brains. One would utterly shrink from following the course of them, or from narrating his wild resolves and revengeful determinations.

Suffice it to say, that out of the dense chaos, his self-condemnation is the feeling that seethes, and rises, and lasts longest.

Oh! what a short-sighted fool he has been, with all his keen worldly wisdom. He has been wearing away

his heart in plans to aggrandize himself and family, and now all his plans are turned to poisoned stings, to fret, and pierce, and wound him.

Had he not in the first instance prejudiced poor Aunt Hetty against her other heirs, doubtless she would have made a just division of the property among them all.

Again, had he in later days allowed Alice to marry Ralph, there would have been but little danger of Grey Towers leaving his family, and, oh! what a different husband would generous, high-minded, unselfish Ralph have made, compared to the man he had himself forced his daughter to marry.

After all, the property has not brought him true happiness. His neighbours do not really respect him, they show it in many ways, very hard to bear.

He is in hot water with his tenants, who, one and all, despise him as a landlord, and detest his overbearing ways.

His sons, Philip especially, are almost reckless in their demands for money, spending is an art in which the whole family have proved themselves wonderfully expert.

And yet they are none of them as happy as they were long ago at Kingston; Grey Towers has not been the home of bliss he once expected it would prove.

Leonard Thwaites, the parson, a man with whom he never felt exactly at ease, will now come forward with flying colours, and triumph over his fall,-showing how unjust his estimate of Leonard's character really is: but some men judge others by themselves-they have no loftier or better standard.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CONCLUSION.

JOM BURGES does not try to prove Aunt Hetty was a lunatic when she made that last will of hers; doubtless he very soon finds out it will be far better for him to let the matter rest as it is. Ugly truths might come out if a very rigid examination took place that he would neither be able to gainsay nor deny.

His one object now is to get away from Grey Towers as soon as possible, and before the news is made public.

Crushed and mortified as he is, he has not the slightest intention of staying at Eastown to be pitied, or blamed, or laughed at by the people over whom he has hitherto taken such a lofty stand.

So he has all the moveable goods packed up, and sets off by train to London, with his wife, the very next day.

"Shall you be long away, sir?" asks the groom, hat in hand.

"Our stay in London is very uncertain, but you shall hear from me in a few days," replies the squire haughtily, as he takes his place in the carriage beside his closely-veiled wife, whose red eyes and altogether over-done manner, are just then a grievance and a vexation to him.

"Don't be so silly, Hannah! you'll set people's tongues wagging before we are even out of sight," whispers he, fiercely.

"Oh! do have a little feeling, Tom! My heart's fairly breaking at having to leave dear old Grey Towers."

"Dear old Grey Towers, indeed! It has been dear to me in more ways than one, I wish I'd never set foot in it; however, we are clear of it now."

Tom stands up in the carriage, and takes a long look back at the place, and at the four grey" pepper-boxes that are glistening above the trees in the summer sunshine.

Just the same kind of bright day as that on which they had first arrived there. How short a time ago it seems now, and yet how many incidents have happened in that time!

"If I could only have seen poor Alice before we left, I should not have cared half as much," whines the sorrowful mother in a sobbing burst of grief.

"Be quiet, Hannah ! Have more self-command, will you! the very coachman will suspect something presently. How could you possibly have sent word to Alice? or how could you have gone there without proclaiming the news to the whole parish? You can write to Alice when we get to London. Ah! it makes me laugh to think that husband of hers will be done out of the five thousand pounds Alice was to have at my death. He'll be a sharer in the loss also. Won't he rave when he gets well enough to hear about it all."

"I hope he won't visit his ravings and disappointment on poor Alice," sobs Mrs. Burges, with a fresh gush of tears.

"Let's change the subject, Hannah; I'm sick of Grey Towers and all connected with it. The less I hear about.it in future the better pleased I shall be."

When they reach the terminus, the squire, who carefully studies appearances to the last, hands his wife out of the carriage with the utmost show of politeness, and hurries into the station with her, lest her tear-stained face might be observed by the coachman.

He finds a shady corner in the railway carriage for her, then goes to see about the luggage, which a couple of carts

have already brought over to the station, "necessary for their lengthened visit to town," he says.

Ere long he has bidden farewell to the place for ever. He came into it with all the pomp of pride and arrogance, he leaves it a mortified and angry man.

He has had some deep and solemn lessons during his sojourn at Grey Towers. He finds wealth does not give unalloyed pleasure, that right will triumph over ill-doing in the end-though the end is not always visible in this lower sphere. The remembrance of these and many other teachings occupy his thoughts during that farewell journey. It will be well for him if the instruction proves salutary, and leads him to God, whose grace can reach the deep depths of hearts, callous as even his has been.

As soon as Tom and his wife arrive in London, Philip Burges is summoned from Richmond to a family conference, and then he hears the startling news his friends have to relate.

He grasps the subject immediately, sees through actions and motives in the times past that have often sorely puzzled him-he understands far more than his father intends he should, and mentally decides "Grey Towers and their possession of it was a bad business-rotten at the coreno foundation-sham-pretence, and a delusion altogether!"

Having thus summed up the matter, he is not the one to reproach or upbraid now. He keeps his knowledge to himself, and tries hard to discover what is the wisest course to take.

It cheers broken-hearted Mrs. Burges to see Philip sitting there in the hotel window, his handsome face looking cheery and hopeful, as the faint radiance of a city's sun-set falls slantingly on him, and it cheers her to hear him rattle on carelessly as ever.

"Don't be down-hearted, dad," he exclaims. "There's still a wide world for us all; for we will henceforth cast in our lot together. Now listen to what I propose. Let us