puzzled. Then she remembered that amongst
Patrick's personal bequests to her had been that of the small mahogany
bureau which stood near the window of his bedroom. It had not occurred
to her at the time that its contents might have any interest for her; in
fact, she had supposed it to be empty. But now she realized that there
was evidently something within it which Patrick must have valued, seeing
he had guarded the key so carefully and directed its delivery to her
through the reliable hands of his solicitor.

Rather glad of anything that might help to occupy her thoughts, she
decided to investigate the bureau at once, and accordingly made her way
to Patrick's bedroom.

On the threshold she paused, her heart contracting painfully as the
spick and span aspect of the room, its ordered absence of any trace of
occupation, reminded her that its one-time owner would never again have
any further need of it.

Everything in the house seemed to present her grief to her anew, from
some fresh angle, forcing comparison of what had been with what was--the
wheeled chair, standing vacant in one of the lobbies, the tobacco
jar perched upon the chimney-piece, the pot of heliotrope--Patrick's
favourite blossom--scenting the library with its fragrance.

And now his room--empty, swept, and garnished like any one of the score
or so of spare bedrooms in the house!

With an effort, Sara forced herself to enter it. Crossing to the window,
she pulled a chair up to the Chippendale bureau and unlocked it.
Then she drew out the sliding desk supports and laid back the flap of
polished mahogany that served as a writing-table. She was conscious of
a fleeting sense of admiration for the fine-grained wood and for the
smooth "feel" of the old brass handles, worn by long usage, then her
whole attention was riveted by the three things which were all the
contents of the desk--a packet of letters, stained and yellowing with
age and tied together with a broad, black ribbon, a jeweller's velvet
case stamped with faded gilt lettering, and an envelope addressed to
herself in Patrick's handwriting.

Very gently, with that tender reverence we accord to the sad little
possessions of our dead, Sara gathered them up and carried them to her
own sitting-room. She felt she could not stay to examine them in that
strangely empty, lifeless room that had been Patrick's; the terrible,
chill silence of it seemed to beat against the very heart of her.

Laying aside the