She would not disobey him. She left the window and bent over the bed.
How still he lay!
"Papa," she said, kissing him softly, "day is dawning."
But the captain never moved nor spoke. And then Harriet Hunsden knew the everlasting day had dawned for him.
CHAPTER XV.
THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET.
It was a very stately ceremonial that which passed through the gates of Hunsden Hall, to lay Harold Godfrey Hunsden's ashes with those of many scores of Hunsdens who had gone before.
The heir at law—-an impoverished London swell—was there in sables and sweeping hat-band, exulting inwardly that the old chap had gone at last, and "the king had got his own again."
Sir Everard Kingsland was there, conspicuous and interesting in his new capacity of betrothed to the dead man's daughter.
And the dead man's daughter herself, in trailing crape and sables, deathly pale and still, was likewise there, cold and rigid almost as the corpse itself.
For she had never shed a tear since that awful moment when, with a wild, wailing cry of orphanage, she had flung herself down on the dead breast as the new day dawned.