from the table.

'Now, if you don't mind,' he said almost cheerfully, the good food
having soothed his troubled mind, 'I would like to take a last look at
my brother. I hope they have not screwed down the coffin?'

Gladys gave a violent start. The word was hideous; how hideous, she had
never realised till it fell from her uncle's lips. But she controlled
herself; nothing was to be gained by exhibitions of feeling in his
presence.

'No, they will come, I think, to-morrow, quite early. I did not wish it
done sooner,' she answered quietly. 'If you come now, I can show you the
door.' She took the lamp from the table, and, with a gesture of dignity,
motioned him to follow her. At the door of the little room where the
artist had suffered and died she gave him the lamp, and herself
disappeared into the studio. Not to sit down and helplessly weep. That
must be over now; there were things to be thought of, things to do, on
the threshold of her new life, and she was ready for action. She found
the matches, struck a light, and began at once to gather together the
few things she must now sacredly cherish as mementoes of her father.
First she took up with tender hand the little canvas from the easel,
looked at it a moment, and then touched the face with her lips. It was
her mother's face, which she remembered not, but had been taught to love
by her father, who cherished its memory with a most passionate devotion.
She wrapped it in an old silk handkerchief, and then began a trifle
dreamily to gather together the old brushes with which John Graham had
done so much good, if unappreciated, work. Meanwhile the old man was
alone in the chamber of death. He had no nerves, no fine sensibilities,
and little natural affection to make the moment trying to him. He