you are well aware, and I know you can keep a secret."
"I can do that, sir," replied the man, steadily contemplating the flowers on the carpet. "Anything wanted, sir?" he added, opening the door.
"No. Call me at twelve. I have been busy all night with my papers, and I feel tired."
As Brady descended the stairs, Robert Mortimer hugged the bedclothes about him and composed himself for sleep.
No pious echo of the God-sent message "peace on earth, goodwill to men," no seasonable thought, no sentiment of charity, no feeling of forgiveness, in keeping with the beginning of a new year, found place in Robert Mortimer's breast. As he lay down in his bed he exclaimed, under his breath,
"Master of the Situation!"
***** *****
Four days after the day of her death, on a bitterly cold, snowy, fifth of January, Mrs. Grafton's lodger was laid in her last resting-place.
In the mortuary chapel at the Cemetery the surpliced clergyman hurriedly said the simple Service for the Dead over several other coffins at the same time that he said it over the black cloth-covered box that now held what once had been
Marie Erle.
The service was soon over, the coffin was lowered into the ground, the gravelly earth fell on the lid with a startling rattle, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and the mourners went back again along the snowy roads and lanes of Chelsea and Brompton till they plunged into the busy streets once more, and came at last to Wilderness Row.
THE TEMPTATION OF ARTHUR.
WHERE to the sea the woodlands fair dropped down,
So close, that ever when the moon was full
Sea-fairies came and joined the wood-nymphs' dance.
The king walked musing through the summer morn;
For in the night strange dreams had vexed his sleep;
And sad pathetic voices haunted him;
And dim forms beckoned him to glorious deeds;
So that he started up with haggard eyes,
And would have no man's comfort.
Far and near,
The blossom-laden boughs were all astir,
And with delicious murmur filled the land;
Like playful children prattling on the beach.
The waves came up and hung around his feet;
Above, the sea-birds cried and flapped their wings;
Behind, the herons piped across the plain;
Through the dim wood a lark sang clear and shrill.
The wind-fanned woodlands and the peaceful sea
Were the familiar objects of his eye.
Herein naught beautiful or strange he saw;
But when the lark sang clearly through the woods,
And a deep stillness crept o'er sea and land,
He paused and listened to the bird's sweet notes.
Then said the king, "No common bird is this,
But some rare spirit poising like a lark.
And calling me to do some glorious deed
Which shall ennoble all my Table Round,
Making me worthiest of worthy knights."
Now, far and near, the lark sang clear and shrill.
"O sad, but happy spirit!" said the king,
"No tones of earth in those sweet notes find place;
Thou art of finer mould than our poor forms,
Which move but with the birth of new desires.
And are of constant elements devoid;
Thou dwellest somewhere in this happy place.
And I will search for thee, and find thy home.
"Now the great boughs bend as I pass along;
With silver heads upreared, snakes hiss at me;
Now through the deepening gloom glow many eyes.
And voices murmur like the midnight sea."
Soon, far away, he spied a little grove.
Through whose twined branches streamed the morning sun
Upon the soft green grass that waved beneath;
And hastening on, and quickly reaching here,
Behold, there sat upon a fallen tree
A maiden weeping.
In her saddened face
The lily and the rose each other vied;
Her eyes were violets hung with dewy tears;
Caressed by careless winds, her yellow hair
Lay like a web of gold above the grass;
Along her naked feet and soft white hands
The tangled brambles cruelly had trailed;
A samite mantle from her shoulders hung,
And hid the sleeky roundness of her arms;
At two spears' length there stood a milk-white steed.
Who neighed and watched the maid with blood-shot eyes.
The king drew near, and took her by the hand,
Whereat she shrank afraid, and would have fled,
