ichaux
spoke of it to each other, but could find little to say to the girl
herself; she had, as it were, drifted beyond their reach, far out on an
unknown sea. They prayed for her, and went silently away, only to come
back within the hour and meet again on the threshold, recognizing each
other's errand. They were troubled by the change in this young creature,
upon whom they had all, in a certain way, depended. Singularly enough,
Miss Lois did not seem to appreciate Anne's condition: she was suffering
too deeply herself. The whole of her repressed nature was in revolt. But
faithful to the unconscious secret of her life, she still thought the
wild pain of her heart was "sorrow for a friend."

She went about as usual, attending to household tasks for both homes.
She was unchanged, yet totally changed. There was a new tension about
her mouth, and an unwonted silence, but her hands were as busy as ever.
Days had passed after the funeral before she began to perceive, even
slightly, the broken condition of Anne. The girl herself was the first
to come back to the present, in the necessity for asking one of those
sad questions which often raise their heads as soon as the coffin is
borne away. "Miss Lois, there are bills to be paid, and I have no money.
Do you know anything of our real income?"

The old habits of the elder woman stirred a little; but she answered,
vaguely, "No."

"We must look through dear papa's papers," said Anne, her voice breaking
as she spoke the name. "He received few letters, none at all lately;
whatever he had, then, must be here."

Miss Lois assented, still silently, and the two began their task. Anne,
with a quivering lip, unlocked her father's desk. William Douglas had
not been a relic-loving man. He had lived, he had loved; but memory was
sufficient for him; he needed no tokens. So, amid a hundred mementos of
nature, they found nothing personal, not even a likeness of Anne's
mother, or lock of her curling brown hair. And amid a mass of
miscellaneous papers, writings on every philosophic and imaginative
subject, they found but one relating to money--some figures jotted down,
with a date affixed, the sum far from large, the date three years
before. Below, a later line was added, as if (for the whole was vague)
so much had gone, and this was the remainder; the date of this last line
was eight months back.

"Perhaps this is it," said Anne; "perhaps this is what he had."

"I'm sure I don't know," sa