A SAD STORY. 99

words, and instead of them rose up a thousand voices
of condemnation from my conscience.
 I fled across the yard, and into the house, and
rushed upstairs to my father's door.
 "It was shut; I remembered the early hour, but
could not wait, so impatient was I to beg his pardon.
 "' Father,' I said softly, a sob breaking through my
voice.
 There was no sound from within, so I called again
and again, though still softly for fear of waking him
from sleep. Still no sound, and now an awful sense
of dread, I knew not of what, crept coldly round my
heart.
 I listened for my father's breathing, which was
usually heavy, but nothing broke the silence save
the loud beating of my own agitated and guilty
heart.
 And now with trembling hands I softly turned
the handle of his door, whilst my shaking limbs were
scarcely able to bear me one step into the room.
 "As I took that one step the awful stillness of that
chamber was soon accounted for. In his chair by the
open window sat my father, but he was dead."
 Mr. Lane ceased speaking, and again buried his
 face in his hands.
 Jack, horrified and amazed at the terrible conclu-
 sion of Mr. Lane's story, sat motionless, scarcely