’Ah, Sir, she was a bright little thing—­a born lady—­such a beauty—­and the best little creature.  The town might well be proud of her, in every way, Sir.’  And he fell a blubbering; and old Major O’Neill, who was a quiet and silent officer, cried in a reserved way, looking into the fire, with his elbow on the mantelpiece.  And Toole said, ’I don’t know how I’ll pass that house.’

And many felt the same.  Little Lily was there no more—­and the Elms were changed—­the light and the grace were gone—­and they were only dark old trees now.

And everyone felt a great desire to find some way—­any way—­to show their respect and affection for their good old rector.  And I’m sure he understood it—­for liking and reverence, one way or another, will tell their story.  The hushed enquiries at the door, and little offers of useless services made by stealth through the servants, and such like foolish kindnesses at such a time—­the evidence of a great but helpless sympathy—­are sweet as angelic music.

And who should arrive at night, with all his trunks, or at least a considerable number of them, and his books and rattletraps, but honest, simple Dan Loftus.  The news was true about his young charge.  He had died of fever at Malaga, and Dick Devereux was at last a step, and a long one—­nearer to the title.  So Dan was back again in his old garret.  Travel had not educated him in the world’s ways.  In them he was the same queer, helpless tyro.  And his costume, though he had a few handsome articles—­for, travelling with a sprig of nobility, he thought it but right and seemed to dress accordingly—­was on that account, perhaps, only more grotesque than ever.  But he had acquired mountains of that lore in which he and good Doctor Walsingham delighted.  He had transcribed old epitaphs and translated interminable extracts from archives, and bought five Irish manuscripts, all highly illustrative of that history on which he and the doctor were so pleasantly engaged.  It was too late that night to go up to the Elms; but he longed to unpack his trunkful of manuscripts, and to expound to his beloved doctor the treasures he had amassed.

And over his solitary tea-cup and his book the sorrowful news from the Elms reached him, and all his historical castles in the air were shivered.  In the morning, before the town was stirring, he crossed the bridge, and knocked softly at the familiar hall-door.  Honest old John Tracy opened it, and Dan shook hands with him, and both cried for a while quietly.

‘How is the honoured master?’ at last said Loftus.

’He’s there in the study, Sir.  Thank God, you’re come, Sir.  I’m sure he’d like to see you—­I’ll ask him.’

Dan went into the drawing-room.  He looked out at the flowers, and then at the harpsichord, and on her little walnut table, where her work-basket lay, and her thimble, and the little coral necklace—­a childish treasure that she used to wear when she was quite a little thing.  It was like a dream; and everything seemed to say—­’Poor little Lily!’