can make that a temporary arrangement. In any case, permit me to say
that I shall take the care of your future on my hands, as Sir Barnard
would have done."

"You are very kind," she said, thoughtfully; "I had no right to expect
that. I did not anticipate anything of the sort."

We talked then, in low tones, about the late baronet and his son. Of
Miles she said very little. Of Sir Barnard she told me many anecdotes,
illustrating his pride, his grave, stately character, his intense love
of caste, his conservatism. I felt almost as though I had known him
before she had finished.

"And Miles," I said, "the poor young heir; how did you like him?"

Was it my fancy, the light flickering on her face, or did a quick
shudder pass over it?

"Every one liked him," she said, slowly. "He was proud and reserved; yet
he was a general favorite."

She was strangely quiet after that, and I suddenly remembered the
drawing-room was hers. I rose, bidding her good-night.

"You shall be sure to hear the stir of the arrival, mademoiselle," I
said; "do not let it disturb you. I should advise you to keep your room
tomorrow until the funeral is over."

Yet, although I so advised her, it struck me that she did not feel any
great amount of sorrow. I cannot tell why I had that impression, but it