ng."

"What! would not the little boys share?"

"I am not sure. But to get away from the subject, which somehow always
draws me back to it, I have one bit of good news for you, my darling. I
had a letter from Santley this morning. He will take my novel, and will
give me a hundred and fifty pounds for it."

"Really? Oh, this is glorious news! I am so delighted! Then you will get
more for the next; you will become known and appreciated."

"Do not be too sure; it may be a failure. And at present I do not feel
as if I should ever have any ideas again. My brain seems so weary."

"Perhaps," whispered Katherine, "you _may_ be able to rest. You are
looking very tired and ill."

Somewhat to her own surprise, Katherine slept profoundly that night. The
delicious sense of comfort and security which her mother's presence
brought soothed her ineffably. It seemed as if no harm could touch her
while she felt the clasp of those dear arms.

The early forenoon brought Mr. Newton, and after a little preliminary
talk respecting the arrangements he had made for the funeral, he
proposed to look for the will which he had drawn up some years before,
and which, to the best of his recollection, Mr. Liddell had taken charge
of himself.

"Might you not wait until the poor old man is laid in his last home?
asked Mrs. Liddell.

"Perhaps it would be more seemly," said the lawyer; "but it is almost
necessary to know who is the heir and who is the executor. Besides, it
is quite possible that since he signed the will I drew up for him in
'59, and to which I was executor, he may have made another, of which I
know nothing, and I may have to communicate with some other executor. I
will therefore begin the search at once. Would you and your daughter
like to be present?"

"Thank you, no," returned Mrs. Liddell.

"I would rather not," said Katherine.

Mr. Newton proceeded on his search alone, while Mrs. Liddell and her
daughter went to the latter's room, anxious to keep from meddling with
what did not concern them.

Scarcely had the former settled herself to write a letter to an old
friend in Florence with whom she kept up a steady though not a frequent
correspondence, when she was interrupted by a tap at the door. Before
she could say "Come in," it was opened to admit Mrs. Frederic Liddell,
who came in briskly. She had taken out a black dress with crape on it,
and retouched a mourning bonnet, so that she presented an appearance
perfectly su