rdily and unnaturally
upon the room after its three days' exclusion. He stood for a moment
looking at the debris of the breakfast that had not yet been removed,
at the disarray of the chairs that had been hurriedly vacated; then,
with a fresh and poignant sense of loss and loneliness, he turned
hastily and walked out of the room.

In the hall he attempted to pause afresh; but the sound of muffled
sobbing from the upper portion of the house sent him incontinently
forth into the open. With an overwhelming desire for human
fellowship--for any companionship in this abode of desolation, he
passed without consideration of his dignity round the corner of the
house in the direction of the stable-yard.

He walked calmly, but there was a pucker of anxiety on his usually
placid brow--an expression of concern, apart from actual sorrow, in his
tightly set lips. To the most casual observer it would have been
obvious that something weighed upon his mind.

Still moving with his habitual precision, he entered the yard by the
arched gateway, picking his way between the scattered array of rubbish,
food, and implements that encumbered the ground.

When he appeared, a dozen rough or glossy heads were thrust out of
kennels or outhouses, as the dogs accorded him a noisy welcome; but
paying only partial heed to their demonstrations, he passed on to the
vast coach-house, with the vague hope that some labourer connected with
the farm or stables might possibly have been left behind in the general
exodus. But here again he was doomed to disappointment. The
coach-house, with its walls festooned with rotting harness, its ghostly
row of cumbersome antiquated vehicles, was as empty of human presence
as the yard itself.

Conscious of the isolation that hung over the place--disproportionately
aware of his own aimlessness, he stood uncertain in what direction to
turn. For the moment, the household had no need of him; there were no
legal formalities to succeed the funeral, Asshlin having left no will;
and of personal duties he had none to claim his attention.

He stood by the coach-house door woefully undecided as to his next
move, when all at once relief came to him from the most unexpected
quarter of the outbuildings. One of the dairy windows was opened
sharply, and a head was thrust through the aperture.

"Wisha, what is it you're doin' there, sir?" a voice demanded kindly.
"Sure that ould yard is no fit place for you!"

Turning hastily, Milb