Still she hesitated.

"If I were sure--" she began doubtfully.

"You may be--absolutely sure. There!"--with a sigh of relief--"that's
settled. But, as I can see you're the kind of person whose conscientious
scruples will begin to worry you the moment I'm gone"--he smiled--"my
wife will write to you. Promise not to run away in the meantime?"

"I promise," said Sara. She held out her hand. "And--thank you." Her
eyes, suddenly misty, supplemented the baldness of the words.

He took the outstretched hand in a close, friendly grip.

"Good. That's the car, I think," as the even purring of a motor sounded
from outside. "I must be off. But it's only _au revoir_, remember."

She walked with him to the door, and stood watching until the car was
lost in sight round a bend of the drive. Then, as she turned back into
the hall, the emptiness of the house seemed to close down about her all
at once, like a pall.

Amid the manifold duties and emergencies of the last few days she had
hardly had time to realize the immensity of her loss. Practical matters
had forcibly obtruded themselves upon her consideration--the necessity
of providing accommodation for the various relatives who had attended
the funeral, the frequent consultations that Major Durward, to all
intents and purposes a stranger to the ways of Barrow, had been obliged
to hold with her, the reading of the will--all these had combined
to keep her in a state of mental and physical alertness which had