the
family face to face with its new conditions, there was a respectful
absence of hurry in beginning the work of reconstruction. The lull
lasted, in fact, till James van Tromp arrived from Paris; and it was
broken then only by the banker's desire "to get things settled" with all
possible speed, so that he might return to the Rue Auber.

The first sign of real disintegration came from Mrs. Eveleth. She had
waited for the arrival of the man whom she looked upon now as her
confidential adviser, to make the announcement that, since Miss Lucilla
would no longer need her, she meant to have a home of her own. The
economies she had been able to practise during the last two years,
together with a legacy from Miss van Tromp, would, when added to "her
own income," provide her with modest comfort for the rest of her days.
There was something triumphant in the way in which she proclaimed her
independence of the daughter-in-law who had been the author of so many
of her woes. It was the old banker himself who brought this intelligence
to Diane.

During the fortnight he had been in New York he had formed an almost
daily habit of dropping in on her. She was the more surprised at his
doing so from the fact that her detachment from the rest of the circle
of which she had formed a part was now complete. She had gone to see
Miss Lucilla with words of sympathy, but her reception was such that she
came away with cheeks flaming. Miss Lucilla had said nothing; she had
only wept; but she had wept in a way to show that Diane herself, more
than the departed Miss Regina, was the motive of her grief. After that
Diane had remained shut up in her linen-room, finding in its occupied
seclusion something of the peace which the nun seeks in the cloister.

There was no one but the old man to push his way into her sanctuary, and
for his visits she was grateful. They not only relieved the tedium of
her days, but they brought her news from that small world into which her
most vital interests had become absorbed.

"So the old lady is set up for life on your money," he observed, as he
watched Diane hold a white table-cloth up to the light and search it for
imperfections.

"It isn't my money now; and even if it were I'd rather she had the use
of it. She would have had much more than that if it hadn't been for me."

"She might; and then again she mightn't. Who told _you_ what would have
happened--if everything had been different from what it is? There are