ere of his uncle's stately home. Had he ever seen
the man before? He really did not know.

They reached the hotel shortly and were conducted to Mr. Stretton's
private apartment, where wine was ordered, and promptly served. For
years thereafter, David never heard the clinking of glasses and bottles
borne on a tray without an instant's sickening sinking of the heart, and
the foreboding that seemed to drench him with dismay as the glasses were
placed on the stand at Mr. Stretton's elbow. When that gentleman, after
seeing the waiter disappear, and placing certain papers before him,
began speaking, David sat dazedly listening.

What was it all--what was it? The glasses seemed to quiver and shake,
throwing dancing flecks of light; and the wine in them--why did it make
him think of blood? Were they dead then--all three--his two cousins and
his brother--dead? Shot! Killed in a bloody and useless war! He was
confounded, and bowing his head in his hands sat thus--his elbows on his
knees--waiting, hearing, but not comprehending.

He could think only of his mother. He saw her face, aged and
grief-stricken. He knew how she loved the boy she had lost, above all,
and now she must turn to himself. He sat thus while the lawyer read a
lengthy document, and at the end personally addressed him. Then he
lifted his head.

"What is this? My uncle? My uncle gone, too? Do you mean dead? My uncle
dead, and I--I his heir?"

The lawyer replied formally, "You are now the head of a most ancient and
honorable house. You will have the dignity of the old name to maintain,
and are called upon to return to your fatherland and occupy the home of
your ancestors." He took up one of the papers and adjusted his monocle.

For a time David did not speak. At last he rose and, with head erect,
extended his hand to the lawyer. "I thank you, sir, for your
trouble,--but now, Doctor, shall we return to your house? I must take a
little time to adjust my mind to these terrible events. It is like being
overtaken with an avalanche at the moment when all is most smiling and
perfect."

The lawyer began a few congratulatory remarks, but David stopped him,
with uplifted hand.

"It is calamitous. It is too terrible," he said sadly. "And what it
brings may be far more of a burden than a joy."

"But the name, my lord,--the ancient and honorable lineage!"

"That last was already mine, and for the title--I have never coveted it,
far less all that it entails. I must th