and childish again; and now," pausing for a deep breath, "will
you please explain to me just my position? When must I go, and--and can I
take away the things that Uncle Walter has given to me from time to time?
The pictures in my own rooms were given to me on certain birthdays and
holidays; the piano he gave me new last Christmas, and I have a watch and
some valuable jewelry."

"Of course, you may keep all such things," Mr. Graves answered with
emotion, for it was inexpressively sad to have this girl so shorn of all
that had made life beautiful to her so many years, "unless," he added,
"it be the piano, and that you may have if there is any way to prove
that it was given to you. You are to have a week in which to make your
arrangements, and at the end of that time everything will pass into the
possession of madame."

"Only a week longer in my dear home!" broke from the quivering lips of
the stricken girl; "how can I bear it? Oh, Uncle Walter! how can I bear
to have strangers handle with careless touch the things that you and I
have loved so much? these dear books that we have read together--the
pictures that we selected and never tired of studying to find new points
for each other! Oh, every one is sacred to me!"

The strong man at her side was so moved by her grief that he was obliged
to rise and walk to a window to conceal his own emotion.

But after a little she controlled herself again, and discussed everything
with him in a grave, quiet, yet comprehensive way that made him sure she
would in time rise above her troubles and perhaps become all the stronger
in character for having been thus tried in the furnace of affliction.

He went every day after that to assist her in her arrangements for
leaving; helped her to pack the treasures she was to take away with her,
and to put in the nicest order everything she was to leave; for on this
point she was very particular. She had secretly resolved that her uncle's
discarded wife should have no fault to find with his home.

When the end of the week arrived Mr. Graves tried to persuade Mona to go
home with him and remain until she could decide what she wished to do in
the future, or, he told her, she was welcome to remain and make it her
home indefinitely.

But she quietly thanked and informed him that she had already arranged to
go as seamstress to a lady on West Forty-ninth street.

"You go as a seamstress?" exclaimed the lawyer, aghast. "What do you know
about sewi