Eight o'clock the next morning, and the church-bells ringing out on the sunshiny air! Everything looked joyous as I drew up the blind—kept down for a week previously. I dressed myself, without waiting for Jemima, in my Sunday frock with its deep crape trimmings. The house would be open again to-day; Selina be sitting up.

I scrambled over my dressing; I fear I scrambled over my prayers. Everything was so still below I thought they had forgotten me. Going down, I knocked at Selina's door, and was waiting to hear her answer, when one of the maids came running up the stairs in a flurry. It was Sarah.

"You cannot go in there, Miss Hereford."

"I want to see how my aunt is."

"Oh, she—she—you must not go in, Miss I say. Your aunt cannot see you just now; you must please go down into Miss Delves's parlour."

Dropping the handle of the door in obedience, I went down a few steps. Sarah ascended to the upper flights. But the girl's manner had alarmed me; and, without any thought of doing wrong, I turned back and softly opened the door. The curtains were drawn closely round the bed.

"Are you worse, Selina?"

No reply came, and I feared she was worse. Perhaps lying with leeches to her throat. I had seen leeches to a throat once, and had never forgotten the sight. At that moment the appearance of the room struck me as strange. It seemed to have been put to rights. I pulled open the curtain in full dread of the leeches.

Alas! it was not leeches I saw; but a still, white face. The face of my Aunt Selina, it is true, but—dead. I shrieked out, in my shock of terror, and flew into the arms of Sarah, who came running in.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Charlotte Delves, flying up to the landing where we stood.

"Why, Miss Hereford has been in there; and I told her not to go!" said Sarah, hushing my face to her as she spoke. "Why couldn't you listen to me, Miss?"

"I didn't know Miss Hereford was up; she should have waited for Jemima," said Charlotte Delves, as she laid hold of me, and led me down to her parlour.

"Oh, Miss Delves, Miss Delves, what is it?" I sobbed. "Is she really dead?"

"She is dead, all too certain, my dear. But I am very sorry you should have gone in. It is just like Jemima's carelessness."

"What's that?—that's like my carelessness, Miss Delves?" resentfully inquired Jemima, who had come forward on hearing the noise.

"Why, your suffering this child to dress herself alone, and go about the house at large. One would think you might have been attentive this morning, of all others."

"I went up just before eight, and she was asleep," answered Jemima, with as pert an accent as he dared to use. "Who was to imagine she'd awake and be down so soon?"

"Why did she die? what killed her?" I asked, my sobs choking me. "Dead! dead! My Aunt Selina dead!"

"She was taken worse at eleven o'clock last night, and Mr. Lowe was sent for," explained Charlotte Delves. "He could do nothing, and she died at two."

"Where was Mr. Edwin Barley?"

"He was with her."

"Not when she was taken worse," interposed Jemima. "I was with her alone. It was my turn to sit up, and she had spoken quite cheerfully to me. Before settling myself in the arm-chair, I went to see if she had dropped asleep. My patience!—my heart went pit-a-pat at the change in her. I ran for Mr. Edwin Barley, and he came in. Mr. Lowe was sent for: everything was done, but she could not be saved."

I turned to Charlotte Delves in my sad distress. "She was so much better last night," I said, imploringly. "She was getting well."

"It was a deceitful improvement," replied Charlotte Delves—and she seemed really sad and grieved. "Lowe said he could have told us so had he been here. Mr. Edwin Barley quite flew out at him, avowing his belief that it was the medical treatment that had killed her."

"And was it?" I eagerly asked, as if, the point ascertained, it could bring her back to life. "Do they know what she died of?"

"As to knowing, I don't think any of them know too much," answered Charlotte Delves. "The doctors say the disorder, together with the shock her system had received, could not be subdued. Mr. Edwin Barley says it could have been, under a different treatment. Lowe tells me now he had little hope from the first."

"And couldn't open his lips to say so!" interposed Jemima. "It's just like those doctors. The master is dreadfully cut up."

They tried to make me take some breakfast, but I could neither eat nor drink. Jemima said they had had theirs "ages ago." None of the household had been to bed since the alarm.

"All I know is, that if blame lies anywhere it is with the doctors," observed Charlotte Delves, as she pressed me to eat. "Every direction they gave was minutely followed."

"Why did nobody fetch me down to see her?"

"Child, she never asked for you; she was past thinking of things. And to you it would only have been a painful sight."

"That's true," added Jemima. "When I looked at her, all unconcerned, I saw death in her face. It frightened me, I can tell you. I ran to call the master, thinking——"

"Thinking what?" spoke Charlotte Delves, for Jemima had made a sudden pause.

"Nothing particular, Miss Delves. Only that something which had happened in the day was odd," added Jemima, glancing significantly at me. "The master was in his room half undressed, and he came rushing after me, just as he was. The minute he looked on her he murmured that she was dying, and sent off a man for Mr. Lowe, and another for the old doctor from Nettleby. Lowe came at once, but the other did not get here till it was over. She died at two."

Jemima would have enlarged on the details for ever. I felt sick as I listened. Even now, as I write, a sort of sickness comes over me with the remembrance. I wandered into the hall, and was sobbing with my head against the dining-room door-post, not knowing any one was there, when Mr. Edwin Barley gently unlatched the door and looked out.

He had been weeping, as was easy to be seen. His eyes were red—his air and manner subdued; but my acquired fear of him was in full force, and I would rather have gone away than been drawn in.

"Child, don't cry so."

"I never took leave of her, sir. I did not see her before she died."

"If weeping tears of blood would bring her back to life, she'd be here again," he responded, almost fiercely. "They have killed her between them; they have, Anne; and, by heavens! if there was any law to touch them, they should feel it."

"Who, sir?"

"The doctors. And precious doctors they have proved themselves! Why do you tremble so, child? They have not understood the disorder from the first: it is one requiring the utmost possible help from stimulants; otherwise the system cannot battle with it. They gave her none; they kept her upon water, and—she is lying there. Oh! that I had done as it perpetually crossed my mind to do!" he continued, clasping his hands together in anguish; "that I had taken her treatment upon myself, risking the responsibility! She would have been living now!"

If ever a man spoke the genuine sentiments of his heart, Mr. Edwin Barley appeared to do so then, and a little bit of my dislike of him subsided—just a shade of it.

"I am sorry you should have come into the house at this time, my poor child; some spell seems to have been upon it ever since. Go now to Charlotte Delves; tell her I say she is to take good care of you."

He shut himself in again as I went away. Oh, the restless day! the miserable day! That, and the one of mamma's death, remain still upon my memory as the two sad epochs of my life, standing out conspicuously in their bitterness.

Moving about the house restlessly; shedding tears by turns; leaning my head on the sofa in Miss Delves's parlour! She was very kind to me; but what was any kindness to me then? It seemed to me that I could never, never be happy again. I had so loved Selina!

I wanted to see her again. It was almost as if I had not seen her in the morning, for the shock of surprise had startled away my senses. I had looked upon mamma so many times after death, that the customary dread of childhood at such sights lingered but little with me. And I began to watch for an opportunity to go in.

It came at twilight. In passing the room I saw the door open, and supposed some of the maids might be there. In I went bravely; and passed round to the far side of the bed, nearest to the window and the fading light.

But I had not courage to draw aside the curtain quite at first, and sat down for a moment in the low chair by the bed's head, to wait until courage came. Some one else came first; and that was Mr. Edwin Barley.

He walked slowly in, carrying a candle, startling me nearly to sickness. His slippers were light, and I had not heard his approach. It must have been he who had left the door open, probably having been to fetch the very candle in his hand. He did not come near the bed, at least on the side where I was, but seemed to be searching for something; looking about, opening two or three drawers. I sat cowering, feeling I had no business to be there; my heart was in my mouth, when he went to the door and called Charlotte Delves.

"Where are my wife's keys?" he inquired, as she came up.

"I do not know," was her answer; and she began to look about the room as he had previously done. "They must be somewhere."

"Not know! But it was your place to take possession of them, Charlotte. I want to examine her desk; there may be directions left in it, for all I can tell."

"I really forgot all about the keys," Charlotte Delves deprecatingly said. "I will ask the women who were here. Why! here they are; in this china basket on the mantelpiece," she suddenly exclaimed. "I knew they could not be far-off."

Mr. Edwin Barley took the keys, and went out, the desk under his arm. Charlotte followed him, and closed the door. But I was too much scared to attempt to remain; I softly opened it, and stole out after them, waiting against the wall in the shade. They had halted at the turning to Mr. Barley's study, half way down the stairs, and were talking in subdued tones. Charlotte Delves was telling him of the lawyer's visit on the previous day.

"I did not mention it before," she observed: "of course, while poor Mrs. Edwin was here, it was not my business to report to you on anything she might do, and to-day has had too much trouble in it. But there's no doubt that Gregg was here, and a clerk with him. Little Miss Hereford showed them out, and I suppose admitted them. It was an odd time to choose for the visit—the hour of the funeral."

Can you imagine how terrified I felt as Charlotte Delves related this? I had done no wrong; I had simply obeyed the orders of Mrs. Edwin Barley; but it was uncertain what amount of blame her husband might lay to my share, and how he would punish it.

"It is strange what Gregg could be doing here at that time with a clerk; and in private, as you appear to assume," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Could he have come by appointment, to transact any legal business for my wife?"

"But, if so, why should she wish it kept from you?" and Charlotte Delves's voice had a jealous ring in it: jealous for the rights of her cousin, Edwin Barley.

"I don't know. The little girl may be able to explain. Call her up."

Another fright for me. But the next moment his voice countermanded the order.

"Never mind, Charlotte; let it be. When I want information of Anne Hereford, I'll question her myself. And if my wife did anything, made a will, or gave Gregg any other directions, we shall soon know of it."

"Made a will!" exclaimed Charlotte Delves.

"I should not think it likely that she would without speaking to me, but she could do it: she was of age," replied Mr. Barley.

He went into his study with the desk, and Charlotte Delves passed downstairs. I got into her parlour as soon as she did; never having seen my dear Aunt Selina.

They took me to see her the next day, when she was in her first coffin. She looked very calm and peaceful; but I think the dead, generally speaking, do look peaceful; whether they have died a happy death or not. A few autumn flowers were strewed upon her flannel shroud.

In coming out of the room, my face streaming with tears, there stood Mr. Lowe.

"Oh, sir!" I cried, in my burst of grief; "what made her die? Could you not have saved her?"

"My little girl, what she really died of was exhaustion," he answered. "The disease took hold of her, and she could not rally from it. As to saving her—God alone could have done that."

There was no inquest this time. The doctors certified to some cause of death. The house was more closely shut up than before; the servants went about speaking in whispers; deeper mourning was prepared for them. In Selina's desk a paper had been found by Mr. Edwin Barley—a few pencilled directions on it, should she "unhappily die." Therefore the prevision of death had been really upon her. She named two or three persons whom she should wish to attend her funeral, Mr. Gregg being one of them.

Saturday again, and another funeral! Ever since, even to this hour, Saturdays and funerals have been connected together in my impressionable mind. I had a pleasant dream early that morning. I saw Selina in bright white robes, looking peacefully happy, saying that her sins had been washed away by Jesus Christ, the Redeemer. I had previously sobbed myself to sleep, hoping that they had.

It was fixed for twelve o'clock this time. The long procession, longer than the other one had been, wound down the avenue. Mr. Edwin Barley went in a coach by himself; perhaps he did not like to be seen grieving; three or four coaches followed it, and some private carriages, Mr. Barley's taking the lead. There was not a dry eye amidst the household—us, who were left at home—with the exception of Charlotte Delves. I did not see her weep at all, then or previously. The narrow crape tucks on her gown were exchanged for wide ones, and some black love-ribbon mingled with her hair. I sobbed till they came back, sitting by myself in the dining-room.

It was the very room they filed into, those who entered. A formidable array, in their sweeping scarves and hatbands; too formidable for me to pass, and I shrunk into the far corner, between the sideboard and the dumb-waiter. But they began to leave again, only just saying good day in a low tone to Mr. Edwin Barley, and got into the coaches that waited. Mr. Gregg the lawyer remained, and Mr. Barley.

"Pardon me that I stay," observed the lawyer to Mr. Edwin Barley; "I am but obeying the request of your late wife. She charged me, in the event of her death, to stay and read the will after the funeral."

"The will!" echoed Mr. Edwin Barley.

"She made a will just before she died. She gave me instructions for it privately; though what her motives were for keeping it a secret, she did not state. It was executed on the day previous to her death."

"This is news to me," observed Mr. Edwin Barley. "Do you hold the will?"

"No, I left it with her. You had better remain, my little girl," the lawyer added to me, touching my arm with his black glove as I was essaying to quit the room. "The will concerns you. I asked your wife if I should take possession of it, but she preferred to keep it herself."

"I do not know where it can have been put, then," returned Mr. Edwin Barley, while his brother lifted his head in interest. "I have examined her desk and one or two of her drawers where she kept papers; but I have found no will."

"Perhaps you did not look particularly for a will, not knowing she had made one, and so it may have escaped your notice, sir," suggested the lawyer.

"Pardon me; it was the precise thing I looked for. I heard of your visit to my wife: not, however, until after her death; and it struck me that your coming might have reference to something of the sort. But I found no will; only a few pencilled words on a half-sheet of paper in her desk. Do you know where it was put?"

The lawyer turned to me. "Perhaps this little lady may know," he said. "She made one in the room when I was with Mrs. Edwin Barley, and may have seen afterwards where the will was placed."

Again I felt sick with apprehension: few children at my age have ever been so shy and sensitive. It seemed to me that all was coming out; at any rate, my share in it. But I spoke pretty bravely.

"You mean the paper that you left on my Aunt Selina's bed, sir? I put it in the cabinet; she directed me to do so."

"In the cabinet?" repeated Mr. Edwin Barley to me.

"Yes, sir. Just inside as you open it."

"Will you go with me to search for it?" said Mr. Edwin Barley to the lawyer. "And you can go into Miss Delves's parlour, Anne; little girls are better out of these affairs."

"Pardon me," dissented Mr. Gregg. "Miss Hereford, as the only interested party, had better remain. And if she can show us where the will is, it will save time."

Mr. Edwin Barley looked as if he meant to object, but did not. "The child's nerves have been unhinged," he said to the lawyer as they went upstairs, I and Mr. Barley following.

The key of the cabinet lay in the corner of the drawer where I had placed it. Mr. Edwin Barley took it from me and opened the cabinet. But no will was to be seen.

"I did not think of looking here," he observed; "my wife never used the cabinet to my knowledge. There is no will here."

There was no will anywhere, apparently. Drawers were opened; her desk, standing now on the drawers, was searched; all without effect.

"It is very extraordinary," said Mr. Gregg to him.

"I can only come to one conclusion—that my wife must have destroyed it herself. It is true the keys were lying about for several hours subsequent to her death, at anybody's command; but who would steal a will?"

"I do not suppose Mrs. Edwin Barley would destroy it," dissented Mr. Gregg. "Nothing can be more improbable. She expressed her happiness at having been able to make a will; her great satisfaction. Who left the keys about, sir?"

"The blame of that lies with Charlotte Delves. It escaped her memory to secure them, she tells me: and in the confusion of the sudden blow, it is not to be wondered at. But, and if the keys were left about? I have honest people in my house, Mr. Gregg."

"Who benefited by the will?" asked Mr. Barley of the Oaks, he having helped in the search, and was now looking on with a face of puzzled concern. "Who comes into the money, Gregg?"

"Ay, who?" put in Mr. Edwin Barley.

"This little girl, Anne Ursula Hereford. Mrs. Edwin Barley bequeathed to her the whole of her money, and also her trinkets, except the trinkets that had been your own gift to her, Mr. Edwin Barley." And he proceeded to detail the provisions of the short will. "In fact, she left to Miss Hereford everything of value she had to leave; money, clothes, trinkets. It is most strange where the will can be."

"It is more than strange," observed Mr. Edwin Barley. "Why did she wish to make the will in secret?"

"I have told you, sir, that she did not say why."

"But can you not form an idea why?"

"It occurred to me that she thought you might not like her leaving all she had away from you, and might have feared you would interfere."

"No," he quietly said, "I should not have done that. Every wish that she confided to me should have been scrupulously carried out."

"Oh, but come, you know! a big sheet of parchment, sealed and inscribed, can't vanish in this way," exclaimed Mr. Barley. "It must be somewhere in the room."

It might be, but nobody could find it. Mr. Barley got quite excited and angry: Mr. Edwin was calm throughout. Mr. Barley went to the door, calling out for Miss Delves.

"Charlotte, come up here. Do you hear, Charlotte?"

She ran up quickly, evidently wondering.

"Look here," cried Mr. Barley, "Mrs. Edwin's will can't be found. It was left in this cabinet, my brother is told."

"Oh, then Mrs. Edwin did make a will?" was the response of Charlotte Delves.

"Yes; but it is gone," repeated Mr. Barley of the Oaks.

"It cannot be gone," said Charlotte. "If the will was left in the cabinet, there it would be now."

The old story was gone over again; nothing more. The will had been made, and as certainly placed there. The servants were honest, not capable of meddling with that or anything else. But there was no sign or symptom of a will left.

"It is very strange," exclaimed Mr. Edwin Barley, looking furtively from the corner of his black eyes at most of us in succession, as if we were in league against him or against the will. "I will have the house searched throughout."

The search took place that same evening. Himself, his brother, Mr. Gregg, and Charlotte Delves taking part in it. Entirely without success.

And in my busy heart there was running a conviction all the while, that Mr. Edwin Barley had himself made away with the will.

"Will you not act in accordance with its provisions, sir?" Mr. Gregg asked him as he was leaving.

"I do not think I shall," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Produce the will, and every behest in it shall be fulfilled. Failing a will, my wife's property becomes mine, and I shall act as I please by it."

The days went by; ten unhappy days. I spent most of my time with Miss Delves, seeing scarcely anything of Mr. Edwin Barley. Part of the time he was staying at his brother's, but now and then I met him in the passages or the hall. He would give me a nod, and pass by. I cannot describe my state of feeling, or how miserable the house appeared to me: I was as one unsettled in it, as one who lived in constant discomfort, fear, and dread; though, of what, I could not define. Jemima remarked one day that "Miss Hereford went about moithered, like a fish out of water."

The will did not turn up, and probably never would: neither was any clue given to the mystery of its disappearance. Meanwhile rumours of its loss grew rife in the household and in the neighbourhood: whether the lawyer talked, or Mr. Barley of the Oaks, and thus set them afloat, was uncertain, but it was thought to have been one or the other. I know I had said nothing; Charlotte Delves said she had not; neither, beyond doubt, had Mr. Edwin Barley. When an acquaintance once asked him whether the report was true, he answered Yes, it was true so far as that Mr. Gregg said his late wife had made a will, and it could not be found; but his own belief was that she must have destroyed it again; he could not suspect any of the household would tamper with its mistress's private affairs.

One day Mr. Edwin Barley called me to him. I was standing by the large Michaelmas daisy shrub, and he passed along the path.

"Are you quite sure," he asked in his sternest tone, but perhaps it was only a serious one, "that you did not reopen the cabinet yourself, and do something with the parchment?"

"I never opened it again, sir. If I had, my aunt must have seen me. And I could not have done so," I added, recollecting myself, "for she kept the bunch of keys under her pillow."

"She was the only one, though, who knew where it was placed," muttered Mr. Edwin Barley to himself in allusion to me, as he walked on.

"It's a queer start about that will!" Jemima resentfully remarked that same night when she was undressing me. "And I don't half like it; I can tell you that, Miss Hereford. They may turn round on me next, and say I made away with it."

"That's not likely, Jemima. The will would not do you any good. Do you think it will ever be found?"

"It's to be hoped it will—with all this unpleasantness! I wish I had never come within hearing of it for my part. The day old Gregg and the young man were here, Charlotte Delves got hold of me, pumping me on this side, pumping me on that. Had they been up to Mrs. Edwin Barley? she asked: and what had their business been with her? She didn't get much out of me, but it made me as cross as two sticks. It is droll where the will can have gone! One can't suspect Mr. Edwin Barley of touching it; and I don't; but the loss makes him all the richer. That's the way of the world," concluded Jemima: "the more money one has, the more one gets added to it. It is said that he comes into possession of forty thousand pounds by the death of Philip King."

The ten days' sojourn in the desolate house ended, and then Charlotte Delves told me I was going to leave it. In consequence of the death of Selina, the trustees had assigned to Mrs. Hemson the task of choosing a school for me. Mrs. Hemson had fixed on one near to the town where she resided, Dashleigh; and I was to pass a week at Mrs. Hemson's house before entering it. On the evening previous to my departure, a message came from Mr. Edwin Barley that I was to go to him in the dining-room. Charlotte Delves smoothed my hair with her fingers; and sent me in. He was at dessert: fruit and wine were on the table; and John set a chair for me. Mr. Edwin Barley put some walnuts that he cracked and a bunch of grapes on my plate.

"Will you take some wine, little girl?"

"No, thank you, sir. I have just had tea."

Presently he put a small box into my hands. I remembered having seen it on Selina's dressing-table.

"It contains a few of your Aunt Selina's trinkets," he said. "All she brought here, except a necklace, which is of value, and will be forwarded, with some of her more costly clothes, to Mrs. Hemson for you. Do you think you can take care of these until you are of an age to wear them?"

"I will take great care of them, sir. I will lock them up in the little desk mamma gave me, and I wear the key of it round my neck."

"Mind you do take care of them," he rejoined, with suppressed emotion. "If I thought you would not, I would never give them to you. You must treasure them always. And these things, recollect, are of value," he added, touching the box. "They are not child's toys. Take them upstairs, and put them in your trunk."

"If you please, sir, has the will been found?" I waited to ask.

"It has not. Why?"

"Because, sir, you asked me if I had taken it; you said I was the only one who knew where it had been put. Indeed, I would not have touched it for anything."

"Be easy, little girl. I believe my wife herself destroyed the will: but I live in hopes of coming to the bottom of the mystery yet. As you have introduced the subject, you shall hear a word upon it from me. Busybodies have given me hints that I ought to carry out its substance in spite of the loss. I do not think so. The will, and what I hear connected with its making, has angered me, look you, Anne Hereford. Had my wife only breathed half a word to me that she wished you to have her money, every shilling should be yours. But I don't like the underhand work that went on in regard to it, and shall hold it precisely as though it had never existed. If I ever relent in your favour, it will not be yet awhile."

"I did not know she was going to leave me anything, indeed, sir."

"Just so. But it was you who undertook the communications to Gregg, it seems, and admitted him when he came. You all acted as though I were a common enemy; and it has vexed me in no measured degree. That's all, child. Take another bunch of grapes with you."

I went away, carrying the casket and the grapes. Jemima was packing my trunks when I went upstairs, and she shared the grapes and the delight of looking at the contents of the casket: Selina's thin gold chain, and her beautiful little French watch, two or three bracelets, some rings, brooches, and a smelling-bottle, encased in filigree gold. All these treasures were mine. At first I gazed at them with a mixed feeling, in which awe and sorrow held their share; Jemima the same: it seemed a profanation to rejoice over what had been so recently hers: but the sorrow soon lost itself in the moment's seduction. Jemima hung the chain and watch round her own neck, put on all the bracelets, thrust the largest of the rings on her little finger, and figured off before the glass; while I knelt on a chair looking on in mute admiration, anticipating the time when they would be adorning me. Ah, my readers! when we indeed become of an age to wear ornaments, how poor is the pleasure they afford then, compared to that other early anticipation!

A stern voice shouting out "Anne Hereford!" broke the charm, startling us excessively. Jemima tore off the ornaments, I jumped from the chair.

"Anne, I want you," came the reiterated call.

It was from Mr. Edwin Barley. He stood at the foot of the stairs as I ran down, my heart beating, expecting nothing but that the precious treasures were going to be wrested from me. Taking my hand, he led me into the dining-room, sat down, and held me before him.

"Anne, you are a sensible little girl," he began, "and will understand what I say to you. The events, the tragedies which have happened in this house since you came to it, are not pleasant, they do not bring honour, either to the living or the dead. Were everything that occurred to be rigidly investigated, a large share of blame might be cast on my wife, your Aunt Selina. It is a reflection I would have striven to shield her from had she lived. I would doubly shield her now that she is dead. Will you do the same?"

"Yes, sir; I should like to do so."

"That is right. Henceforth, when strangers question you, you must know nothing. The better plan will be to be wholly silent. Remember, child, I urge this for Selina's sake. We know how innocent of deliberate wrong she was, but she was careless, and people might put a different construction on things. They might be capable of saying that she urged Heneage to revenge. You were present at that scene by the summer-house, from which Heneage ran off, and shot King. Do not ever speak of it."

I think my breath went away from me in my consternation. How had Mr. Edwin Barley learnt that? It could only have been from Selina.

"She sent me after Mr. Heneage, sir, to tell him to let Philip King alone—to command it in his mother's name."

"I know. Instead of that he went and shot him. I would keep my wife's name out of all this; you must do the same. But that you are a child of right feeling and of understanding beyond your years, I should not say this to you. Good-bye. I shall not see you in the morning."

"Good-bye sir," I answered. "Thank you for letting them all be kind to me."

And he shook hands with me for the first time.