ildren all right?"

Eugenia nodded, "Yes, as usual."

"Did their father tell them the news of Cousin Hetty's death? How did
they take it? Elly perhaps was . . ."

Eugenia did not know about this, had not happened to hear anybody say.
But old Toucle was back, at least, to do the work.

"I knew she must be," said Marise. "She was here last night. It was she,
you know, who found Frank Warner's body at the foot of . . . of course
you've heard of that?"

Eugenia made a little wry face. Of course she had heard of that, she
said with an accent of distaste. Everybody was talking about the
melodramatic accident, as probably they would still be talking about it
a hundred years from now, up here where nothing happened. People had
come all the way from North Ashley to look at the place, and some of the
men and boys had gone around up to the top of the Eagle Rocks to see
where Frank had lost his footing. They found his surveyor's compass
still set upon its staff. It was where the line ran very near the edge
and Frank must have stepped over the cliff as he was sighting along it.
They could see torn leaves and stripped twigs as though he had tried to
save himself as he fell.

She stopped speaking. Marise found herself too sick and shaken to
venture any comment. There was rather a long silence, such as was
natural and suitable under the circumstances, in that house. Presently
Marise broke this to ask if anyone knew how Frank's mother had taken the
news, although she knew of course Eugenia was the last person of whom to
ask such a question. As she expected, Eugenia had only lifted eyebrows,
a faint slow shake of her head and a small graceful shrug of her
shoulders, her usual formula for conveying her ignorance of common
facts, and her indifference to that ignorance.

But Marise, looking at her, as they sat opposite each other in the
twilight of the closely shuttered room, was struck by the fact that
Eugenia did not seem wholly like herself. Her outward aspect was the
same, the usual exquisite exactitude of detail, every blond hair shining
and in its place, the flawless perfection of her flesh as miraculous as
ever, her tiny white shoe untouched by dust through which she must have
walked to reach the house. But there was something . . . in her eyes,
perhaps . . . which now looked back at Marise with an expression which
Marise did not understand or recognize. If it had not been impossible to
think it of Eugenia, Marise would have