The hour was now waxing late; and Talbot, mindful of his companion's
health, rose to retire. As he pressed Clarence's hand and bade him
farewell for the night, Linden thought there was something more than
usually impressive in his manner and affectionate in his words.
Perhaps this was the natural result of their conversation.

The next morning, Clarence was awakened by a noise. He listened, and
heard distinctly an alarmed cry proceeding from the room in which
Talbot slept, and which was opposite to his own. He rose hastily and
hurried to the chamber. The door was open; the old servant was
bending over the bed: Clarence approached, and saw that he supported
his master in his arms.

"Good God!" he cried, "what is the matter?" The faithful old man
lifted up his face to Clarence, and the big tears rolled fast from
eyes in which the sources of such emotion were well-nigh dried up.

"He loved you well, sir!" he said, and could say no more. He dropped
the body gently, and throwing himself on the floor sobbed aloud. With
a foreboding and chilled heart, Clarence bent forward; the face of his
benefactor lay directly before him, and the hand of death was upon it.
The soul had passed to its account hours since, in the hush of night,
--passed, apparently, without a struggle or a pang, like the wind,
which animates the harp one moment, and the next is gone.

Linden seized his hand; it was heavy and cold: his eye rested upon the
miniature of the unfortunate Lady Merton, which, since the night of
the attempted robbery, Talbot had worn constantly round his neck.
Strange and powerful was the contrast of the pictured face--in which