several legacies to his servants, but no mention was made of
mademoiselle. I thought it strange at the time, afterward I understood
it.

Of course, as the poor young Miles was dead without heirs, I, as next of
kin, took his place. I faithfully carried out every wish expressed in
the will. That same evening I sent orders to London for a splendid
memorial window to be placed in the church, and while I sat wondering
whether I had remembered everything that required attention, there came
a rap at the library door. Mademoiselle would be glad if I could see her
for five minutes.

I went at once to the drawing-room, knowing she would be there. She was
dressed in the deepest mourning, and her face was very pale.

"I knew you would spare me a short time," she said. "I want to ask you a
question that I could not ask any one else. Of course you were present
when the will was read to-day?"

She raised her eyes to mine. I knew not what magnetism, what spell lay
in them; but no other eyes were like them. They compelled attention; a
man could no more release himself from their glance than he could fly. I
was not at all in love with her, yet those eyes held me spell-bound.

"I want you to tell me," she said, "if there was any other will.
Did--did Miles leave one?"

As she put the question to me I saw that her lips were parched and
burning, her white fingers so tightly clenched that they left great red
marks.