"Once," said Lord Dunstanwolde, slowly, "I saw a tender creature die
after her travail--but she was beloved to worship, and our hearts stood
still in our bosoms as we waited. Mine has truly never seemed to beat
since then. Her child--who might, perchance, have aided me to live
again, and who would have been my hope and joy and pride, died with
her. This poor thing, unwanted, hated, and cast aside to live or
die--as if it were the young of some wild creature of the woods--this
one, they say, has the strength of ten, and will survive. God have
mercy on its evil fortunes."

Young Roxholm stood with folded arms gazing straight before him again
into the driving rain. His brow was knit, and he was biting his boyish
red lip.

"Is there mercy?" he said in a low voice, at length. "Is there justice,
since a human thing can be so cast into the world--and left alone?"

Lord Dunstanwolde put his hand upon his shoulder.

"All of us ask," he said. "None of us knows."




_CHAPTER V_

_My Lord Marquess Plunges into the Thames_


A rich young nobleman at the University of Oxford, who, having all the