e had deceived her, played
with her, she told herself, deluded her; and now her mother's death
brought home all the horror, the disgrace, which that mother's life had
been for Molly. An outcast whom no one cared for, no one loved, no one
wanted. The new gentleness of the past weeks, the new softness, all the
high and sacred thoughts that had seemed to have taken possession of her
inner life, were gone at this moment. Her feeling now was that, if she
were made to suffer, she could at least make others suffer too.

She had thrown off her furs in walking up and down, and they had fallen
on to the box which Dr. Larrone had brought. Presently they slipped to
the floor, and showed the small, black tin despatch box.

Molly broke the seal of the envelope, took out the key, and opened the
box, half mechanically and half as seeking a distraction.

Inside she found two or three packets of old yellow letters, a few faded
photographs, and a tiny gold watch and chain; and underneath these
things a large registered envelope addressed to Madame Danterre.

Molly was not acutely excited about this box. She knew that her mother's
will would be at the lawyer's. She had no anxiety on this point, but
there is always a strange thrill in touching such things as the dead
have kept secret. Even if they have bid us do it, it seems too bold.

Molly shrank from what that box might contain, what history of the past
it might have to tell, but she did not think it would touch her own
life. Therefore, thinking more of her own sorrow than anything else,
Molly drew two papers out of the registered envelope, and then shrank
back helplessly in her chair. She had just seen that the larger of the
two enclosures was a long letter beginning: "Dearest Rose." She
hesitated, but only for a moment, and then went on reading.

"I trust and hope that if I die in to-morrow's battle this will reach
you safely. I have really no fear whatever of the battle, and after it
is over I shall have a good opportunity of putting this paper into a
lawyer's hands at Capetown."

Then she hastily dropped the letter and took up a small paper that had
been in the same envelope. A glance at this showed that it was the "last
will and testament of Sir David Bright."

It was evidently not drawn up by a lawyer, but it seemed complete and
had the two signatures of witnesses; Lord Groombridge and Sir Edmund
Grosse were named as executors. It was dated on board ship only a few
weeks be