man to have been the disguise of a
villain, Rose, the victim, knew better. It was a supreme proof of the
clear vision of her soul that she was not surprised, and that, even
while she seemed to be flayed morally and exposed to things evil and of
shame, she did not judge with blind indignation. He had not been wholly
bad, he had not been callous in his cruelty; what he had been there
would be time to understand--time for the delicacies, almost for the
luxuries of forgiveness. What she was feeling after now was a point of
view above passion and pain from which to judge this final opinion of
the lawyer's, from which to know whether Sir David had left another
will.

"There has been another will," she said very gently, "but, of course, it
is more than likely that it will never be found. I am convinced"--she
looked at the black and green turf all the time, and obviously spoke to
herself, not to Mr. Murray--"that he did not intend to leave me to open
shame"--the words were gently but very distinctly pronounced--"or to
leave a scandal round his own memory. Perhaps he carried another will
about with him, and if so it may be sent to me. Somehow I don't think
this will happen. I think the will you have in your hand is the only one
I shall ever see, but I do not therefore judge him of having faced death
with the intention of spoiling my life. I shall live in this house and I
shall honour his memory; he died for his country, and I am his widow."

That was all she could say on the subject then, and she could only just
ask Mr. Murray if he could see her again any time the next morning.
After answering that question the lawyer went silently away.

Rose stood by the table where he had sat a moment before, looking long
and steadfastly at the photograph. She looked at the open face, she
looked at the military bearing, she looked at the Victoria Cross,--it
had been the amazing courage shown in that story that had really won
her,--she looked, too, at the many medals. She had been with him once in
a moment of peril in a fire and had seen the unconscious pride with
which he always answered to the call of danger. She had, too, seen him
bear acute pain as if that had been his talent, the thing he knew how to
do.

"Ah, poor David!" she said softly. "What did she do to frighten you?
Poor, poor David, you were always a coward!"

CHAPTER II

IN THE EVENING

But this was a trial to search out every part of Rose's nature. She had
too