o the darkened oak room
on the first floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtains
made a pleasant rosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible to
believe that that serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, with
its wide closed lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cut
mouth, and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth of
autumn flowers and dark copper-coloured beech leaves, were not the face
and hands of a sleeping man.

But Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. She drew
the curtains aside herself, and there stood his table; his chair was
beside it, pushed back and sideways as if he had that moment left it; and
on the table itself the books she knew so well.

In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lying
upon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even the
ink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to lay
its hand upon his heart. She stooped and read the last sentence.

"This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat and
drink of that labour and are burden, and come--" and there it stopped;
and the blinding tears rushed into the girl's eyes, as she stooped to
kiss the curved knob of the chair-arm where his dear hand had last
rested.

When all was over a day or two later the two went up to stay at the Hall,
while the housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwell
and Mistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on the
occasion of the funeral, for the first time ever since the old Marian
priest had left; and had assisted too at the opening of the will, which
was found, tied up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaid
desk; and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell wished
to have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony.

She made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony's departure for
Cambridge, two days after the funeral, when Mistress Margaret was out of
the room, and Hubert had ridden off as usual with Piers, on the affairs
of the estate.

"My child," said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive and listless
on the window-seat. "What do you think your cousin will direct to be
done? He will scarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay with
him. And yet, you understand, he is your guardian."

Isabel shook her head.

"We know nothing of him," she said, wearily, "he has never been here."