"Oh, my lady, there's no tale to tell," cried the maid. "We are not of
the gossiping sort, my lady, neither me nor Mr. Brown." Lady Mary
laughed, and watched while the candles were put out, the fire made a
pleasant flicker in the room,--it was autumn and still warm, and it was
"for company" and cheerfulness that the little fire was lit; she liked to
see it dancing and flickering upon the walls,--and then closed her eyes
amid an exquisite softness of comfort and luxury, life itself bearing her
up as softly, filling up all the crevices as warmly, as the downy pillow
upon which she rested her still beautiful old head.

If she had died that night! The little sheet of paper that meant so much
lay openly, innocently, in her writing-book, along with the letters she
had written, and looking of as little importance as they. There was
nobody in the world who grudged old Lady Mary one of those pretty placid
days of hers. Brown and Jervis, if they were sometimes a little
impatient, consoled each other that they were both sure of something in
her will, and that in the mean time it was a very good place. And all the
rest would have been very well content that Lady Mary should live
forever. But how wonderfully it would have simplified everything, and how
much trouble and pain it would have saved to everybody, herself included,
could she have died that night!

But naturally, there was no question of dying on that night. When she was
about to go downstairs, next day, Lady Mary, giving her letters to be
posted, saw the paper she had forgotten lying beside them. She had
forgotten all about it, but the sight of it made her smile. She folded
it up and put it in an envelope while Jervis went down-stairs with the
letters; and then, to carry out her joke, she looked round her to see
where she would put it. There was an old Italian cabinet in the room,