nton by the half-past nine train."

"Well, well. Yes--yes--indeed, your uncle is also here?"

"Yes. He will be down shortly."

"Very good, Miss Maggie. Very good."

She hated that he should call her Miss Maggie. He had always treated
her with considerable respect, but to-day she fancied that he
patronised her. He placed his hand for a moment on her shoulder and she
shrank back. He felt her action and, abashed a little, coughed and blew
his nose. He strutted about the room. Then the door opened and Ellen
the cook looked in upon them.

"I only wished to see, Miss, whether I could do anything for you?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Maggie.

"Been with you some time that woman?" said Mr. Brassy.

"Yes," said Maggie, "about five years, I think."

"Hum! Hum--name of Harmer."

"Yes. Harmer."

"Not married?"

"No," answered Maggie, wondering at this interest.

"Not so far as you know."

"No. She's always Miss Harmer."

"Quite so--quite so. Dear me, yes."

Other people appeared, asked questions and vanished. It seemed to have
been all taken out of her hands and it was strange how desolate this
made her. For so many years she had had the management of that house,
since her fourteenth birthday, indeed. Ugly and dilapidated though the
place had been, it had grown, after a time, to belong to her, and she
had felt as though it were in some way grateful to her for keeping it,
poor thing, together. Now it had suddenly withdrawn itself and was
preparing for the next comer. Maggie felt this quite definitely and
thought that probably it was glad that now its roof would be mended and
its floors made whole. It had thrown her off ... Well, she would not
burden it long.

There were sounds then of wheels on the gravel. The old dilapidated cab
from Clinton with its ricketty windows and moth-eaten seats that smelt
of straw and beer was standing at the door, the horse puffing great
breaths of steam into the frozen air. Her aunt had arrived. Maggie,
standing behind the window, looked out. The carriage door opened, and a
figure, that seemed unusually tall, appeared to straighten itself out
and rose to its full height on the gravel path as though it had been
sitting in the cab pressed together, its head upon its knees.

Then in the hall that was dark even on the brightest day, Aunt Anne
revealed herself as a lady, tall indeed, but not too tall, of a fine
carriage, in a black rather shabby dress and a black bonnet. Her face
was