he
names of the friends for whom they were intended. Her grief was
sufficiently real to make her, perhaps, overestimate the number of those
to whom such relics would be precious. A tender smile was on her lips at
the recollection of an old soldier servant of Sir David's who had been
with him in Egypt. She hesitated a moment between two objects--one, a
good silver-mounted leather purse, and the other an inkstand of brass
and marble. These two things were the recipients of her unjust aversion
for long after that moment.

Simmonds, the butler, opened the door, quite certain that the visitor he
announced must be admitted, and conscious of the fitness of the big
study for his reception. It was Sir David's solicitor. But the butler
was disappointed at the manner of his entrance. He did not analyse the
disappointment. He was half conscious of the fact that the _role_ of the
family lawyer on the occasion was so simple and easy. He would himself
have assumed a degree of pomp, of sympathy, of respect, carrying a
subdued implication that he brought solid consolation in his very
presence. Simmonds grieved truly for Sir David, but he felt, too, the
blank caused by the absence of all funeral arrangements in a death at
the war. He had been butler in more than one house of mourning before,
and he knew all his duties in that capacity. After this he would know
how to be butler in the event of death in battle. But now, when the
memorial service had taken, in a poor sort of way, the place of the
funeral, of course the solicitor ought to come, and past deficiencies
could be overlooked. Why, then, should the man prove totally unequal to
his task? Mr. Murray, Junior, had usually a much better manner than
to-day. Perhaps he was startled at being shown at once into the widow's
presence. Probably he might have expected to wait a few moments in the
big study, while Simmonds went to seek his mistress.

But there was Lady Rose turning round from the bookcase as they came in.
Mr. Murray stooped to-day, and his large head was bent downwards, making
it the more evident that the drops of perspiration stood out upon his
brow. He cast a look almost of fear at the fair face with its gentle,
benignant expression. He had seen Rose once or twice before, and he knew
the old-fashioned type of great lady when he met it. Was it of Rose's
gentle, subtle dignity that he was afraid?

Rose drew up a chair on one side of the big square writing-table, and
signed to