Weircombe Church had a small but musical chime of bells, presented to it by a former rector--and the silvery sweetness of the peal just now ringing was intensified by the close proximity of the mountain stream, which, rendered somewhat turbulent by recent rains, swept along in a deep swift current, carrying the melody of the chimes along with it down to the sea and across the waves in broken pulsation, till they touched with a faint mysterious echo the masts of home-returning ships, and brought a smile to the faces of sailors on board who, recognising the sound, said "Weircombe bells, sure-_ly_!" Helmsley stood listening, lost in meditation.

To anyone who could have seen him then, a bent frail figure just within the cottage door, with his white hair, white beard, and general appearance of gentle and resigned old age, he would have seemed nothing more than a venerable peasant, quietly satisfied with his simple surroundings, and as far apart from every association of wealth, as the daisy in the grass is from the star in the sky.

Yet, in actual fact, his brain was busy weighing millions of money,--the fate of an accumulated mass of wealth hung on the balance of his decision,--and he was mentally arranging his plans with all the clearness, precision and practicality which had distinguished him in his biggest financial schemes,--schemes which had from time to time amazed and convulsed the speculating world.

A certain wistful sadness touched him as he looked on the quiet country landscape in the wintry sunlight of this Christmas morn,--some secret instinctive foreboding told him that it might be the last Christmas he should ever see.

And a sudden wave of regret swept over his soul,--regret that he had not appreciated the sweet things of life more keenly when he had been able to enjoy their worth.