my condolences," murmured Dora, unable to do more
than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.

"Yes, yes--thank you--thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we
shall be reconciled in time."

With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not
trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.

Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out
of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick's home, crept
away.

CHAPTER XV

COLONEL DUNDAS SPEAKS HIS MIND

Colonel Dundas entered the dining-room with his hands full of letters,
and gave a sharp glance at Dora, who was there before him this morning,
sitting with a newspaper in her lap, and her hands clasped, gazing
abstractedly into space.

People who knew of her regard for Dick Swinton spared her any reference
to the young man's death; but others, who loved gossip and were blind to
facial signs, babbled to her of the rector's trouble. The poor man was so
broken, they said, that he could not conduct the Sunday services. A
friend was doing duty for him. But Mrs. Swinton had come out splendidly,
and was throwing herself heart and soul into the parish work, which the
collapse of her husband seriously hindered. It was gossiped that she had
sold her carriage and pair to provide winter clothing for the children of
the slums. The gay wife had quite reformed--but would it last? How dull
it was in the church without the rector, and what an awful blow his son's
death must have been to whiten his hair and make an old man of him in the
course of a few days?

Dora listened to these tales, unwilling to surrender one jot of news that
in any way touched the death of her lover. She found that the people who
talked of Dick very soon forgot his heroism. Mark Antony's words were too
true: "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred
with their bones."

Now, the colonel flung down his letters, and, taking up one that was
opened, handed it to Dora.

"There's something in this for you to read--a letter from Ormsby, Dora."

"I don't want to read anything from Mr. Ormsby."

"I've read it," said the colonel awkwardly, "as Mr. Ormsby requested me
to. I think you'll be sorry if you don't see what he says."

Dora's face hardened as she took out the closely-written letter,
addressed to herself, and enclosed under cover to her father.

"MY DEAR MISS DUNDAS,

I have been very wretched s