The Christian world magazine (and family visitor).

It was the afternoon of a dull November day, and the shades of night were rapidly descending over the quiet west-central square in which my story opens. In a handsomely furnished chamber in one of the best houses in this square, Mrs. Willabye lay dying, of a fatal disease, which had run its course so rapidly that her husband and her friends could scarcely bring themselves to believe that the end was really close at hand.

She was sitting up in her bed-a comfortable, old-fashioned four-poster-well supported by pillows, talking rather slowly, though with an occasional unsteadiness of tone, to a showilydressed personage sitting at her side. She was an elderly woman, though not perhaps so old as she looked; the straggling locks that escaped from beneath her elaborately frilled nightcap were few and grey; her forehead was a good deal wrinkled, and her cheeks were hollow; her hands, as they rested quietly on the fine linen sheet, were very thin, and were neither white nor smooth, and showed traces of many a hard day's toil at some period, not very far distant; her face was sad and anxious, and wore a strange, wistful expression, as if it would fain see a little more of the life of this world, which was so rapidly fading from her view; she was saying in a clear, distinct, yet subdued voice, "She is my one real anxiety, Caroline. If it were not for Hilda, I think I should not be unwilling to die. My life has not been a very happy one."

"Frank has not been unkind to you?"

"Oh, no, no! I should be ungrateful indeed if I made any complaint of him. He has scarcely ever said a cross word to me, and he has given me every comfort-I may say, every luxury! I never thought to live in a house like this, and have servants at my command. Frank's luck has been wonderful-wonderful!"

"So I suppose," replied Mrs. Tillotson, the "Caroline" previously addressed. "I only wish my husband would have a lucky fit, but Tillotson never was the man to take fortune by the forelock; and then, he never had any chances to speak of. Mr. Willabye might have been no better off than my Tom if he had not found a helping hand."

"No, indeed; and it is because we owe so very much-everything indeed-to Mr. Warleigh that I am so anxious that Hilda should be done well by. Her father has so much faith in us; his trust in my husband is boundless."

"I don't quite understand about Miss Hilda; I knew, of course, that she was not your own child, and, in one of your letters, you said something about holding her in trust-her father's trust, of course. Has she no mother-no relations ? and why did her father go away and leave her ?"

"I don't know that I have the strength now to tell you, but I'll try; if I cannot make you understand, Frank will," replied Mrs. Willabye. "You see, Frank and Mr. Warleigh were boys together, and fast friends, though they were not in the same station of life. Frank was an orphan, very poor, and very cruelly treated by that old uncle of his, whom I can scarcely bear to name. Mr. Warleigh, too, was an orphan, and poor; but, in comparison with Frank, almost rich. They were thrown together somehow, and took a great liking to each other, and after awhile an opportunity occurred to Mr. Warleigh of serving his friend, by recommending him to the notice of the great firm of Sexton, Fullager, and Sexton. He was taken on trial at the instance of Mr. Warleigh, who was intimate with Mr. Fullager-quite as an underling, I believe, holding rank as an office-lad willing to make himself generally useful, rather than as an office-clerk."

"Yes; you told me something like that before, when you were trying to make up your mind to marry Mr. Willabye. And your husband that is now put his best foot foremost, and got on? I

remember."

"Yes; that was just it. He did get on, and what was more, people said he well deserved the success he found."

"May be !" returned Mrs. Tillotson, sharply; "but lots of folks never get what they deserve; as I always said, Frank Willabye was a lucky man! He was lucky in finding a friend to push his

fortunes, and he was lucky in getting on from year to year; and he will be lucky to his life's end, no doubt! Some men are born to luck, and some aint; and we all know, that nothing succeeds like success."

"Yes, Frank has been lucky, or fortunate, ever since he ran away from his uncle's house-there is no denying it; though I am not sure but that what is called 'luck' is only the result of perseverance in doing's one duty, and making the best of one's opportunities."

"Well! that's neither here nor there; go on with your story, Martha. You know I came all the way from Newcastle to hear it; I shouldn't have come so promptly at the call of any one else, I can tell you. It's a very long journey, and Tom pulled a long face and was none too pleased, I promise you, when I told him what I was going to do."

"It was very kind (of you, and I am afraid I was just a little thoughtless," faltered the invalid. "Bat, Caroline, you and I used to be such dear friends in past time, and we have always corresponded since we parted. And I did so want to see the face of an old friend, and to say a few things that I could not-I hardly know why !-say to anybody else."

"Oh! I rather liked the notion of the journey; I don't much fancy Newcastle; I am always glad to be in London; I wish Tom had his business here. Well-go on!"

"I could not tell you all the story of my husband's fortunes, because I do not know it, so as to tell it again intelligibly. But of this I am sure, in one way or in another he owed everything to Mr. Warleigh, who, on his part, did anything but prosper, but went on from bad to worse, till he lost pretty nearly all he had. If Frank made a speculation of any sort, it turned in twenty or thirty per cent. directly; if Mr. Warleigh did the same thing, it straightway came to grief. Frank has often told me that he kept clear on principle-of all his patron's ventures, because it really seemed as if every mortal thing he touched was bound to be unlucky."

"Who is Mr. Warleigh?"

"He is Warleigh of Warleigh-the last of the Warleighs! unless one counts poor little Hilda, who is only a girl. The Warleighs are a Chalkshire family-a very fine old family, and lords of the soil for miles and miles round about Southcombe, which is only a little to the west of Ravenage, that is famous for its wonderful stone, that is always being quarried and sent all over the country. I have been there; we went to Southcombe on our wedding-tour-Frank and I. It seemed to me one of the most desolate, out-of-the-world places that could ever be; but the sea

was beautiful, and the cliffs, and the great high downs, and Warleigh Place!-oh, there nover was anything like it, out of a book."

"Was it so very grand ?

"Some people would say it was little better than a ruin; but it must have been a splendid place once, when it was at its best. Evil fortunes have followed the family ever since the days of King Charles II., when the Warleigh of that time-Sir Rupert,' they called him—murdered a gentleman of the French Court, after he had run away with his wife. And then, people said, there was a curse on the family, and on the house, and nothing belonging to them would ever prosper, till, in the end, the Warleighs would become extinct a prediction which is all but accomplished." "Where is Mr. Warleigh now?" "He is in India-somewhere ! His letters are dated from various places with the most extraordinary names; but we always write to him through his agent in Calcutta. As I told you, he got poorer and poorer, till he lost all hope of regaining his ancient inheritance, which was partly mortgaged, and partly in the possession of creditors, who, however, could not do much with it, because the old title-deeds they tell me, stand in the way of its being properly sold. Mr. Warleigh's father and grandfather— both of them sad spendthrifts, especially the latter-managed between them to cut off the entail; but when the estates came to be disposed of, some difficulty arose, that the lawyers, for all their stratagems, could never get over; and now "The Place," and the park, and ever so much of the land is in Chancery."

"Was your Mr. Warleigh a spendthrift ?"

"Dear, no; not he! Never was a nicer nor a better gentleman; it was the sins of the fathers visited upon the children, you see! They all paid, as I have been told, one after another, for the transgressions of their ancestors, from the son of that wicked Sir Rupert, down to the present day. Mr. Warleigh's father inherited very little except debts, I have heard; and as for Mr. Warleighour Mr. Edward he had nothing in the world but a little farm in Creamshire, that he inherited from his own mother, of whom he always spoke with the deepest reverence and affection. It was about two years ago that somebody persuaded him to try his fortunes in India, and, as a last chance, he went."

"And left his little girl in your care?"

"Yes; he left Miss Hilda with us, in our sole guardianship; he had some very distant relations, he said, but he knew nothing of them nor they of him; and there was nobody in the wide world that he could trust as he trusted Frank Willabye. He and I were always good friends, though I fancy he did not quite approve

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