s gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Oh, just hear this! Little Miss Huntington's old aunt is dead."

There was an exclamation from every one.

"Yes," she went on reading, with a faint little conventional tone of
sympathy in her voice; "she died ten days ago--very suddenly, of
heart-disease."

"Oh, poor little Lois! I am so sorry for her!" It was Alice Lancaster's
voice.

But Keith did not hear any more. His heart was aching, and he was back
among the shrubbery of The Lawns. All that he knew was that Rhodes and
Mrs. Rhodes were expressing sympathy, and that Mrs. Lancaster, who had
not said a word after the first exclamation, excused herself and left
the saloon. Keith made up his mind promptly. He went up on deck. Mrs.
Lancaster was sitting alone far aft in the shadow. Her back was toward
him, and her hand was to her eyes. He went up to her. She did not look
up; but Keith felt that she knew it was he.

"You must go to her," she said.

"Yes," said Keith. "I shall. I wish you would come."

"Oh, I wish I could! Poor little thing!" she sighed.

Two days after that Keith walked into the hotel at Brookford. The clerk
recognized him as he appeared, and greeted him cordially. Something in
Keith's look or manner, perhaps, recalled his former association with
the family at The Lawns, for, as Keith signed his name, he said:

"Sad thing, that, up on the hill."

"What?" said Keith, absently.

"The old lady's death and the breaking up of the old place," he said.

"Oh!--yes, it is," said Keith; and then, thinking that he could learn if
Miss Huntington were there without appearing to do so, except
casually, he said:

"Who is there now?"

"There is not any one there at all, I believe."

Keith ordered a room, and a half-hour later went out.

Instead of taking a carriage, he walked There had been a change in the
weather. The snow covered everything, and the grounds looked wintry and
deserted. The gate was unlocked, but had not been opened lately, and
Keith had hard work to open it wide enough to let himself through. He
tramped along through the snow, and turning the curve in the road, was
in front of the house. It was shut up. Every shutter was closed, as well
as the door, and a sudden chill struck him. Still he went on; climbed
the wide, unswept steps, crossed the portico, and rang the bell, and
finally knocked. The sound made him start. How lonesome it seemed! He
knocked again, but no one came. Only the snowbirds on