Everything in the house seemed to present her grief to her anew, from
some fresh angle, forcing comparison of what had been with what was--the
wheeled chair, standing vacant in one of the lobbies, the tobacco
jar perched upon the chimney-piece, the pot of heliotrope--Patrick's
favourite blossom--scenting the library with its fragrance.

And now his room--empty, swept, and garnished like any one of the score
or so of spare bedrooms in the house!

With an effort, Sara forced herself to enter it. Crossing to the window,
she pulled a chair up to the Chippendale bureau and unlocked it.
Then she drew out the sliding desk supports and laid back the flap of
polished mahogany that served as a writing-table. She was conscious of
a fleeting sense of admiration for the fine-grained wood and for the
smooth "feel" of the old brass handles, worn by long usage, then her
whole attention was riveted by the three things which were all the
contents of the desk--a packet of letters, stained and yellowing with
age and tied together with a broad, black ribbon, a jeweller's velvet
case stamped with faded gilt lettering, and an envelope addressed to
herself in Patrick's handwriting.

Very gently, with that tender reverence we accord to the sad little
possessions of our dead, Sara gathered them up and carried them to her
own sitting-room. She felt she could not stay to examine them in that
strangely empty, lifeless room that had been Patrick's; the terrible,
chill silence of it seemed to beat against the very heart of her.

Laying aside the jeweller's case and the package of letters, she opened
the envelope which bore her name and drew out a folded sheet of paper,