know what his people are, stiff-necked, conventional,
purse-proud, always boasting of their lineage. Until Netty is married!
Wait till then."

"I don't know what to do," moaned the broken man, bursting into tears,
and sinking into his chair at the table.

"Be guided by me, John. The dead can't feel, while the living can be
condemned to lifelong torture."

"Have your own way," he groaned. "I don't know what to do. I shall never
hold up my head again."

"Oh, yes, you will, John, and--there is always my shoulder to rest it
upon, dearest. Let me comfort you."

* * * * *

Netty Swinton sat before the drawing-room fire, curled up on the white
bearskin rug with a book in her hand, munching biscuits. Netty was
generally eating something. Her eyes were red, but she had not been
weeping much, and, as she stared into the embers, her pretty,
expressionless little mouth was drawn in a discontented downward curve.

She was in mourning--and she hated black. Netty was thinking ruefully of
Dick's disgrace that had fallen upon the family, and wondering anxiously
what the effect would be upon Harry Bent and his relations, when a knock
at the front door disturbed her meditations, and presently, after a
parley, a visitor was announced--although visitors were not received
to-day, with Mrs. Swinton lying ill upstairs, and the rector shut up
alone in his study.

"Miss Dundas."

Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a
sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer's black dress and hat, which
signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather
impertinent.

The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great
deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and
introduced her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of
Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in
temperament, and, in a way, rivals.

"Netty, is your mother really ill?" asked Dora, as she extended her hand,
"or is she merely not receiving anyone?"

"Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very
upset."

"Oh, Netty, it is terrible!" sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. "It
can't be true--it can't!"

"What can't be true?" asked Netty, coldly.

"Poor dear Dick's death. It will kill me."

"I don't think there is any doubt about it," snapped Netty. "And I don't
see why you should feel it mo