ers discuss the last new
topic.

"I received a letter this morning," Cecil says, "summoning me to Herst,
to hear the will read. You, too, I suppose?"

"Yes; though why I don't know."

"I am sure he has left you something. You are his grandchild. It would
be unkind of him and most unjust to leave you out altogether, once
having acknowledged you."

"You forget our estrangement."

"Nevertheless, something tells me there is a legacy in store for you. I
shall go down to-morrow night, and you had better come with me."

"Very well," says Molly, indifferently.

At Herst, in spite of howling winds and drenching showers, Nature is
spreading abroad in haste its countless charms. Earth, struggling
disdainfully with its worn-out garb, is striving to change its brown
garment for one of dazzling green. Violets, primroses, all the myriad
joys of spring, are sweetening the air with a thousand perfumes.

Within the house everything is subdued and hushed, as must be when the
master lies low. The servants walk on tiptoe; the common smile is
checked; conversation dwindles into compressed whispers, as though they
fear by ordinary noise to bring to life again the unloved departed. All
is gloom and insincere melancholy.

Cecil and Molly, traveling down together, find Mrs. Darley, minus her
husband, has arrived before them. She is as delicately afflicted, as
properly distressed, as might be expected; indeed, so faithfully, and
with such perfect belief in her own powers, does she perform the pensive
_role_, that she fails not to create real admiration in the hearts of
her beholders. Molly is especially struck, and knows some natural regret
that it is beyond _her_ either to feel or look the part.

Marcia, thinking it wisdom to keep herself invisible, maintains a strict
seclusion. The hour of her triumph approaches; she hardly dares let
others see the irrepressible exultation that her own heart knows.

Philip has been absent since the morning; so Molly and Lady Stafford
dine in the latter's old sitting-room alone, and, confessing as the
hours grow late to an unmistakable dread of the "uncanny," sleep
together, with a view to self-support.

* * * * *

About one o'clock next day all is over. Mr. Amherst has been consigned
to his last resting-place,--a tomb unstained by any tears. At three the
will is to be read.

Coming out of her room in the early part of the afternoon, Cecil meets
unexpect