th its beauty. I should have liked her better if she had shown more
sorrow for the awful event that had happened; as, it was, I could not
help thinking that her chief emotion had been a kind of half fear as to
what would become of herself.

Then I reproached myself for thinking so unkindly of her, and resolved
that I would not judge her; after that I forgot mademoiselle. I heard
the sound of carriage wheels in the distance, and, looking down the long
vista of trees, I saw a hearse slowly driven up, and then I knew that
the dead Trevelyans had been brought home.

The desolation and sadness of that scene I shall never forget--the
hearse, the dark, waving plumes, the sight of the two heavy laden
coffins, the servants all in mourning.

A room next the great entrance hall had been prepared; it was all hung
with black and lighted with wax tapers. In the midst stood the two
coffins covered with a black velvet pall.

On the coffin of Miles Trevelyan, the son and heir, I saw a wreath of
flowers. I asked several times who had brought it, but no one seemed to
know.

I do not think that any one at Crown Anstey went to rest that night,
unless it were mademoiselle. There was something in the event to move
the hardest heart.

Father and son had left Crown Anstey so short a time since, full of
health, vigor, strength and plans for the future. They lay there now,
side by side, silent and dead; no more plans or hopes, wishes or fears.
The saddest day I ever remember was the one on which I helped to lay my
two unknown kinsmen in the family vault of the Trevelyans.

CHAPTER IV.

It was all over. The morning, with its sad office, had passed; the
servants had gone back to their work; the blinds were drawn up, and
light once more found its way into the darkened house. The will was read
in the library; the whole of the property, entailed and unentailed, was
left to his only son, Miles, and after him to his heirs. There was
several legacies to his servants, but no mention was made of
mademoiselle. I thought it strange at the time, afterward I understood
it.

Of course, as the poor young Miles was dead without heirs, I, as next of
kin, took his place. I faithfully carried out every wish expressed in
the will. That same evening I sent orders to London for a splendid
memorial window to be placed in the church, and while I sat wondering
whether I had remembered everything that required attention, there came
a rap at the library