It was late in the afternoon when Mr Philip Ashton walked up to the door of his residence in Portman-square. His hand touched the knocker irresolutely. "It must be done," he said to himself. "May strength be given to all of them to bear the blow!" His hand shook as he rapped. The hall door flew open, a servant in handsome livery stood ready to take his hat and gloves. As he entered the drawing-room his wife and daughters rose to welcome him, with affection beaming in their eyes, as did his three sons, who had just arrived at home from different directions. "Dear papa, you are not well," exclaimed Sophy, his eldest daughter, leading him to a seat.…
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