st citizen
of the village. A large-eyed, terror-stricken Phyllis learned of her
loneliness and sobbed on the good woman's broad bosom. The innkeeper and
the postmaster smoked their pipes outside until the first outburst of
childish grief had spent itself.

It appeared then that the little Miss must tell them to whom they should
send a telegram. How painful and new to be obliged to think; how choking
were the vague thoughts. But at last a ray of comfort; they should
telegraph Farquharson, her dear, dear nurse. The name was slowly
spelled. And the address? Perfectly, Phyllis knew the street and number
of that fascinating home of hers, but she now remembered that
Farquharson would not be there; that Farquharson had gone to visit her
brother in a little town in the south of England; a little town of which
Phyllis had heard the most wonderful, true stories; but she did not know
its name. "Couldn't the telegraph find out?" she asked; and then,
overcome with rushing thoughts, abandoned herself again to grief.

"There are Mr. Knowles, Mr. Leonard, and Mr. Singleton," she bethought
her. "But they are painting in Algiers."

There was a lady her mamma called Molly, too, whom Phyllis liked very
much, who came often to tea, accompanied by a tiny brown dog; but the
patient innkeeper could learn no more of her than that mamma always
called her Molly; the tiny brown dog's name, Phyllis remembered, was
Tip.

How might this poor innkeeper's meager vocabulary convey the idea of
relatives to Phyllis's mind? But somehow, at last, it was done.

"Yes," said Phyllis, struck suddenly with the thought. "There is Uncle
Peter. But my papa and mamma never went to see him, and he never came to
see them." A half-forgotten word occurred to her,--"They were
es-tranged."

The innkeeper eyed her doubtfully; but Uncle Peter's last name she knew,
of course; was it not her own? And his title, too. The innkeeper,
impressed, communicated his intelligence to the postmaster; they made
their good-byes awkwardly and left the room.

Two days must elapse before the steamer arrived; ample time for
composition. It grieved the innkeeper that another name than the
author's must be signed to his telegram; but intellect yielded to rank;
the postmaster signed alone.

And so, on a day when the dreary churchyard on a bleak hillside, near
the little fishing village, received the poor remains of Robert Oglebay
and Valentine, his wife, Sir Peter, in the paneled libra