and at
length they ceased entirely.

The portiere rustled slightly, and Patty's face became visible. Her
eyes were wet. She had tried to keep away, but something drew her
irresistibly. Her heart swelled. If only she might touch his bowed
head, aye, kiss the touches of grey at the temples; if only she might
console him in this hour of darkness and grief. Poor boy, poor boy!
She knew not how long she watched him; it might have been minutes or
hours; she was without recollection of time. A hand touched her gently
on the arm. Kate stood by her side.

"Come," she whispered; "come, Patty."

Patty turned without question or remonstrance and followed her up
stairs.

"Kate, dear Kate!"

"What is it, darling?"

"He is all alone!"

At midnight John tiptoed into the music-room. Warrington had not
moved. John tapped him on the shoulder.

"You mustn't stay here, old man. Come to bed."

Warrington stood up.

"Would you like a drop of brandy?"

Warrington shook his head.

"It is terribly hard," said John, throwing his arm across the other's
shoulders. "I know; I understand. You are recalling all the mistakes,
all the broken promises, all the disappointments. That is but natural.
But in a few days all the little acts of kindness will return to your
memory; all the good times you two have had together, the thousand
little benefits that made her last days pleasant. These will soften
the blow, Dick."

"I wasn't there," Warrington murmured dully. His mind could accept but
one fact: his aunt had died alone, without his being at the bedside.

It rained in Herculaneum that night. The pavement in Williams Street
glistened sharply, for a wind was swinging the arc-lamps. The trees on
the Warrington lawn sighed incessantly; and drip, drip, drip, went the
rain on the leaves. Not a light shone anywhere in the house; total
darkness brooded over it. In one of the rooms a dog lay with his nose
against the threshold of the door. From time to time he whined
mournfully. In another room an Angora cat stalked restlessly back and
forth, sometimes leaping upon a chair, sometimes trotting round and
round, and again, wild-eyed and furtive, it stood motionless, as if
listening. Death had entered the house; and death, to the beast, is
not understandable.

Chapter XI

Everybody had gone down the winding road to the granite entrance of
the cemetery; the minister, the choir, the friends and those who had
come because they reveled in