mercifully precluded retrospective thought.

But now the necessity for _doing_ anything was past; there were no
longer any claims upon her time, nothing to distract her, and she had
leisure to visualize the full significance of Patrick's death and all
that it entailed.

Rather languidly she mounted the stairs to her own room, and drawing up
a low chair to the fire, sat staring absently into its glowing heart.

Virtually, she was alone in the world. Even Major Durward, who had been
so infinitely kind, was not bound to her by any ties other than those
forged of his own friendly feelings. True, he had been Patrick's cousin.
But Patrick, although he had made up Sara's whole world, had been
entirely unrelated to her.

Her heart throbbed with a sudden rush of intense gratitude towards the
man who had so amply fulfilled his trust as guardian, and she glanced
up wistfully at the big photograph of him which stood upon the
chimney-piece.

Propped against the photo-frame was a square white envelope on which
was written: _To be given to my ward, Sara Tennant, after my death_.
The family solicitor had handed it to her the previous day, after the
reading of the will, but the demands upon her time and attention had
been so many, owing to the number of relatives who temporarily filled
the house, that she had laid it on one side for perusal when she should
be alone once more.

The sight of the familiar handwriting brought a swift mist of tears to