going with us, and she refused--very unkindly, I thought at the time;
but perhaps it was just as well--we might never have paid it back."

It was Mr. Shelton's turn to flush, but he only said, irritably:

"And why the devil should they think you want to go to her funeral?"

Mrs. Shelton professed herself unable to guess, unless the fact that
the family was nearly extinct had led her cousin to remember her on
her deathbed.

"Well, they might have saved themselves the expense of the telegram,"
Mr. Shelton grumbled, adding, sarcastically, "unless they would like
to pay our expenses to Chicago, and entertain us when we get there!"

It appeared later that was exactly what they hoped to do. A registered
letter, written at Mrs. Beck's request, when her death was
approaching, arrived within an hour. She begged her cousin's
forgiveness for past unkindness, told her that she had left her the
savings of her lifetime--though the main part of the estate passed to
Mr. Beck's nephew--and besought Mrs. Shelton, as her only relation, to
follow her to her grave. Young Mr. Beck, the said nephew, who wrote
the letter, added that the house should be kept up for Mrs. Shelton's
convenience till after her visit, and that his aunt had expressed a
wish that her clothes and jewels should be given to Mrs. Shelton.

"We'll go, Mary!" said Mr. Shelton, blithe as a lark--several things
had raised his spirits!--and Mrs. Shelton, with a burst of her old
energy, borrowed some mourning, packed her trunk, summoned Deena and
caught the train, with five minutes to spare.

And so it happened that when Mr. French called, as was his daily
custom, to take his last cup of tea with Mrs. Ponsonby before her
flitting, he found the house in the temporary charge of the servant
and Master Dicky Shelton, a shrimpish boy of thirteen, whose red hair
and absurd profile bore just enough likeness to his sister's beauty to
make one feel the caricature an intentional impertinence.

French had got into the drawing room before he understood what the
servant was saying. Deena had gone, leaving no message for him! His
first feeling of surprise was succeeded by one of chagrin; these
afternoon chats by her fireside had become so much to him, so much a
part of his daily life, that he hated to think they had no
corresponding value to her. He was recalled from these sentimental
regrets by the irate voice of Master Shelton in dispute with Bridget.

"She--_said_--there--was cak