Colin and Eva walked down the hill together, sympathetic friends and humble dependents standing aside to let them pass.

They talked in low voices, decorously; but the sense of relief from tension which follows on a funeral, shewed in their brightening faces, as they turned with undisguised pleasure toward the beautiful house which was now their own possession.

“Colin, I know why that man’s face seemed familiar to me. You remember I whispered to you when we noticed him in the church, that I was certain I had seen him before?”

“Well? Had you?”

“No. But—it’s very curious. Just as we turned from the grave—you saw how he stood gazing down at the coffins?—he looked up, and his eyes met mine. Then I remembered. He is extraordinarily like the photographs of my father.”

“Could he be a relation?”

“Not that I know of. My father was an only child, and I never heard of cousins.”

“Well, we can tell Thomas to find out who he is. I say, dear! Won’t tea be nice! Let’s have it in the Oak Room. I shall make that my smoking-room, if you have no objection.”