ll you how grieved I am. You must
be brave girls and try to comfort every one else at home. It will be a
sad loss for you all."

Lilias and Dulcie went upstairs almost dazed with the unexpected bad
news. They could hardly believe that their grandfather, whom they had
left apparently in the best of health and spirits, could have gone away
into that other world where Father and Mother and a little sister had
already passed over before. They packed in a sort of dream, drank the
cups of tea which Miss Walters, full of kind sympathy, pressed upon them
in the hall, greeted Milner, who was starting his engine, and entered
the waiting car. Owing to the floods, they took a roundabout route, but
half an hour's drive through sleet and rain brought them to Cheverley
Chase. It was strange to see the blinds all down as they drew up at the
house. As they ran indoors, Winder, the old butler, came from his pantry
into the hall. They questioned him eagerly. He shook his head as he
replied:

"It's a sad business, Miss Lilias and Miss Dulcie. He was just as usual
yesterday, then about nine o'clock Miss Clare rang the bell violently,
and when I came into the drawing-room, there was Master lying on the
floor in a kind of fit. I telephoned to the doctor, and we got him to
bed, but he never recovered consciousness. He went at eleven this
morning, as you'll see by the clock there. I stopped all the clocks at
once. It's the right thing to do in a house when the master dies. Miss
Clare's in her room. I'll let her know you've arrived."

"We'll go and find her, thank you," said Lilias, walking quietly
upstairs.

The Ingleton children were truly grieved at the loss of the grandfather
who, for so many years, had stood to them in the place of a parent. They
went softly about the house and spoke in hushed voices. Everything
seemed strange and unusual. A dressmaker came from London with boxes of
mourning for Cousin Clare and the girls; beautiful wreaths and crosses
of flowers kept arriving and were carried upstairs. Mr. Bowden, the
lawyer, was constantly in and out, making arrangements for the funeral;
neighbors left cards with "Kind sympathy" written across the corner.
Everard, who had arrived home shortly after his sisters, seemed to have
grown years older. He walked with a new dignity, as of one who is
suddenly called to fill a high position.

"I'll be a good brother to you all," he said to the younger ones. "You
must always look upon the Chase