live with her if they would agree to do as she wished about this. It would be so great a comfort to her to be assured that she was not in death to be separated from her dearly loved moors. She liked Sarah well enough, only that it was so pleasant to live alone with her bees and the plains. Besides, if she should chance to die alone, who would tell the bees? It would be a pity to have the fine swarms lost. Suddenly she started up in the dusk, and without knowing clearly why she did it, she wrote on the bottom of the list of errands which she always made on Saturday for her cousin her wish concerning her grave. The spot she mentioned was a knoll near the house, where the ground rose a little before it dipped into the sea. She reflected as she wrote that it was wiser to be prepared for whatever could happen, and, although she would not own it frankly even in these lonely musings, Ruth had felt strangely weak and worn to-day. She frugally blew out the candle when her writing was done, and with calm content sat down again in her rocking-chair by the window darkening to "a glimmering square." She heard the sound of the sea and the low wind blowing over the wide plains; and, lulled by the soft sounds, she fell at last asleep. The wind rose in the night, and it was afternoon when the cousin from the village came in sight of the red house. No smoke rose from its chimney, and as he tied his clumsy sail-boat to the low wharf where so long ago a yacht had been briefly fastened, a long wavering line of bees rose glistening from the straw-thatched hives, floating upward and away like the departing soul of mortal. Their mistress had been dead more than twelve hours and they had not been told. Perhaps it was a chance flight; perhaps they were seeking her serene spirit over the moors she loved so well. Interlude Seventh. THIRTEEN. THIRTEEN. [_The drawing-room of Mr. Sylvanus Potts Thompson, banker. Mr. Thompson and his wife, with ten guests, making a neat round dozen in all, are waiting the announcement of dinner. Enter Mr. Sylvanus Potts, a wealthy uncle from the country._] _Mr. Potts._ I told the man there was no need to announce me; you knew I was coming next week, and a few days don't matter. How do you do, nephew? how do you do, Jane? _Mr. Thompson._ Why, uncle, we did not expect you so soon, but we are always glad to see you, of course. _Mrs. Thompson._ Yes, always, dear Uncle Sylvanus. How is everybody at home? _Mr. P._ Oh, they're all well; you seem to be having a party, nephew? _Mr. T._ Only a few friends to dinner. Let me introduce you. [_He takes him on his arm and presents him to his guests. While this is being done, a sentimental, elderly young woman, with thin curls, after whispering impressively with her neighbor, glides up to the hostess, and holds a moment's conversation with that lady. Mrs. Thompson turns pale, and seems engaged in a mental calculation. Then she starts quickly toward her husband and draws him aside_]