dead
passed up and down the great house, Jason was setting out the simple
"funeral baked meats" which are considered appropriate to the occasion,
and Mr. Wordley paced up and down the hall with his hands behind his
back, listening to the undertaker's men upstairs, and glancing through
the window in expectation of the carriage which had been sent for Mr.
John Heron. Presently he saw it rounding a bend of the drive, and went
into the library to prepare Ida.

She raised her head but not her eyes as he entered, and looked at him
with that dull apathy which denotes the benumbed heart, the mind
crushed under its heavy weight of sorrow.

"I came in to tell you, my dear, that Mr. John Heron is coming," he
said. "The carriage is just turning the bend of the drive." "I will
come," she said, rising and supporting herself by the heavy, carved arm
of the great chair.

"No, no" he said. "Sit down and wait here." He did not want her to hear
the stealthy tread of the undertaker's men, to meet the coffin which
they were going to bring downstairs and place in the hall. "I will
bring him in here. Is there anything you would like me to say to him,
my dear?" he asked, and spoke with a certain hesitancy; for as yet he
had not spoken of her future, feeling that her grief was too recent,
too sacred, to permit of the obtrusion of material and worldly matters.

"To say to him?" she repeated, in a low, dull voice, as if she did not
understand.

"Yes," he said. "I did not know whether you had formed any plan,
whether"--he hesitated again, "you had thought of going--of paying a
visit--to these relations of yours. He lives in the north of London,
and has a wife and son and daughter, as you know."

Ida passed her hand across her brow, trying to remember.

"Ah, yes," she said at last, "I remember you told me about them. I
never heard of them before--until now. Why should I go to them? Do they
want me? Have they asked me?"

Mr. Wordley coughed discreetly. They certainly had not asked her, but
he felt quite assured that an individual whose reputation for sanctity
stood so high could not be so deficient in charity as to refuse a home
to his orphan cousin.

"They have not sent you any definite invitation yet, but they will be
sure to want you to go and stay with them, for a time, at any rate; and
I think you ought to go."

"I do not think I should like it," said Ida, but indifferently, as if
the question were of no moment. "I would rather st