"Let him come here, then, Lucy. I can only suppose it to be some one of
the many persons Grace has served; her short life was all activity in that
particular."

Lucy's face did not corroborate that notion; but she withdrew to let my
decision be known. In a few minutes a large, hard-featured, but not
ill-looking man approaching fifty, entered my room, walked up to me with
tears in his eyes, squeezed my hand warmly, and then seated himself
without ceremony. He was attired like a thriving countryman, though his
language, accent, and manner denoted one superior to the ordinary run of
those with whom he was otherwise associated in externals. I had to look at
him a second time ere I could recognise Jack Wallingford, my father's
bachelor cousin, the western land-holder.

"I see by your look, cousin Miles, that you only half, remember me," my
visitor remarked; "I deeply regret that I am obliged to renew our
acquaintance on so melancholy an occasion."

"There are so few of, us left, Mr. Wallingford, that this kindness will be
doubly appreciated," I answered. "If I did not give orders to have you
apprised of the loss we have all sustained, it is because your residence
is so far from Clawbonny as to render it improbable you could have
received the intelligence in time to attend the solemn ceremony that
remains to be performed. I did intend to write to you, when a little
better fitted to perform such a duty."

"I thank you, cousin. The blood and name of Wallingford are very near and
dear to me, and Clawbonny has always seemed a sort of home."