About a quarter of an hour after Arthur Holroyde had disappeared with that airy wave of his delicate hand, a shot sounded far a shot sounded far away in the stillness of the wood.

"Good heavens, how foolish I am!" thought Marcia, after she had started to her feet pale and trembling; "that sound made my heart grow cold, though I have heard a hundred times that the wood is infested by poachers, who defy the keepers, knowing very well that papa won't prosecute them. Some poor creature whose wife and children are half-starving fired that shot, I daresay."

Miss Denison had been accustomed to be startled by stray shots almost every evening of late-shots which Dorothy explained as "Poachers, please, Miss Marcia; and father says if Sir Jasper isn't more severe with them, there won't be any birds left by and by; for they shoot the young birds, Miss Marcia, and wire the young hares, and go on dreadfully."

"If I sit idle here any longer," thought Marcia, "I shall be full of nervous fancies."

So she went to the lamp-lit table, and opened her books. It is something for a woman to be a little bit of a blue-stocking when the hour of trouble comes upon her. A parcel of new books had come down from Dulau that afternoon, and Marcia had some volumes of classic history and biography to dip into, written in that light airy manner with which Frenchmen can handle the heaviest subjects. She tried to concentrate her attention upon her book, and succeeded so far as to get through the evening somehow or other. She was even astonished when she looked up at the little timepiece on the mantelshelf, and saw that the hands pointed to half-past eleven. She was dawdling over the putting away of her books and papers, glad to do any thing that occupied the time and would help to shorten a sleepless night, when she was startled by the trampling of footsteps, the ringing of half-adozen different bells, and the sound of many voices all talking at once.

She rushed out into the corridor, and thence to the broad landing at the top of the principal

staircase, where she met Dorothy flying towards her, pale and breathless.

"What is the matter? Speak, child, speak!" she cried, grasping the girl's arm.

"Oh, Miss Marcia-don't be frightened! It's -it's very dreadful, but it's nothing wrong with your papa-or any body you know-but thethe gentleman who was here to-day has been found in the wood-shot-and he's being brought in here, miss, dead or dying; and they're riding off for doctors right and left. And Mrs. Brownlow is almost beside herself with fright. It'sit's like it was that dreadful night, Miss Marcia, when poor Miss Denison was dying, and nobody seemed calm or able to do any thing quietly, except you."

"Yes," murmured Marcia in a faint voice, "I remember that night; and God grant I may be strong enough to be useful now, if any help can save this miserable man! Where have they carried him, Dorothy?"

"Into the study, miss. Sir Jasper said he wasn't to be moved a step farther than was

necessary.

The servants were

all crowding

about the door, and I just caught a glimpse of the poor gentleman lying on a sofa that had been brought out of the drawing-room, and looking as white and still as a corpse; but Sir Jasper sent us all away, and shut the door; and every body is to go to bed, Mrs. Brownlow says, except Mary Carter, Mr. Hills, and the men who have gone for the doctor."

Mr. Hills was Sir Jasper's own man, and a model of sobriety and solemnity. This gentleman had had so much experience in the nursing of invalids who ailed nothing, that he was almost as good as a doctor.

Throughout the remainder of that night, Marcia kept watch alone in her own room, while Dorothy slumbered peacefully in her little chamber nigh at hand. All that miserable night Marcia sat in the old-fashioned window, ready to help if her help were wanted below, and praying in her heart of hearts for Godfrey Pierrepoint, by whose hand she believed the stricken man had fallen.

CHAPTER VII.

SUNSHINE FOR MR. DOBB.

THE next day was Friday, and Friday loomed a black and gloomy day for Henry Adolphus Dobb, who evidenced so morose a disposition at the domestic breakfast-table, that he drew down upon himself figuratively-worded reproaches to the effect that he had arisen from the wrong side of his bed, and was afflicted with a pain in his temper.

Perhaps there is no repast more apt to become weary to the spirit and revolting to the appetite than the dismal meal with which the Englishman with limited means fortifies himself for his day's work. The Parisian may have three courses and a dessert in the Palais-Royal for something under fifteenpence, or in quaint little streets on the other side of the Seine, for some