seless, and only lived till midnight,
dying without recovering speech or consciousness. It was a sudden
seizure, but what everybody had expected; everybody was shocked for the
moment, and then wondered that they were. It was very appalling to me; I
was so unhappy, I almost believed I loved him, and I certainly mourned
for him with simplicity and affection.

The preparations for the funeral were so frightful, and all the thoughts
it brought so unnerving, that I was almost ill. A great deal came upon
me, in trying to manage the wailing servants, and in helping Richard in
arrangements.

It was the day after the funeral; I was tired, out, and had lain down on
the sofa in the dining-room, partly because I hated to be alone
up-stairs, and partly because it was not far from lunch-time, and I felt
too weary to take any needless steps. I don't think ever in my life
before I had lain down on that sofa, or had spent two hours except, at
the table, in that room. It was a most cheerless room, and no one ever
thought of sitting down in it, except at mealtime. I closed the shutters
and darkened it to suit my eyes, which ached, and I think must have
fallen asleep.

The parlor was the room which adjoined the dining-room (only two large
rooms on one floor, as they used to build), and separated from it by
heavy mahogany columns and sliding-doors. These doors were half-way
open, and I was roused by voices in the parlor. As soon as I recovered
myself from the sudden waking, I recognized Sophie's and then Richard's.
I wondered what Richard was doing up-town at that hour, and so Sophie
did too, for she asked him very plainly.

"I thought I ought to come to see Pauline," she said, "but I did not
suppose I should find you here in the middle of the day."

"There is something that I've got to see Pauline about at once," he
said, "and so I was obliged to come up-town."

"Nothing has happened?" she said interrogatively.

"No," he answered, evasively.

But she went on: "I suppose it's something in relation to the will; I
hope she's well provided for, poor thing."

"Sophie," said her brother, with a change of tone, "You'll have to hear
it some time, and perhaps you may as well hear it now. It is that that I
have come up-town about; there has been some strange mistake made; there
is no will."

"No will!" echoed Sophie, "Why, you told me once--"

"That he had left her everything. So he told me twice last year; so I
have always believed to