My mother's face turned still paler. She made no reply, but, walking across the octagon room, she spent some little time examining the old furniture, and touching it with reverent fingers. "Rosamund," she said suddenly, "I am tired. This day has been too much for me. We will go home now." I took the ring home in my pocket. This was a dangerous thing to do, and Mr Gray looked somewhat grave as he saw me slip such a precious relic into so insecure a hiding-place. "_Do_ keep out of crowds," he said. "Beware of pickpockets when you get to Paddington, and, above all, keep your pocket side next your mother when you get into the train." I don't think I attended to any of these directions, but the little old brown morocco case containing Cousin Geoffrey's legacy arrived safely at Ivy Lodge, the name of our humble abode. My mother and I got back in time for supper. My father and the boys arrived home as usual, and we sat down together to our supper. I felt excited and full of my subject. Surely on this night the departed relative might be mentioned; the curious scene after the funeral might be detailed for the benefit of those who were not present. But, as we approached the table, my mother held up a warning, finger. "Not a word about Cousin Geoffrey," she whispered to me. The evening meal was even more dull than usual. No one alluded to the events of the day. George read a battered novel as he sipped his tea, and my father perused the evening paper, as was his invariable custom. After tea, Jack, my youngest brother, came up and asked me a question. "Any money left to you by the old miser, eh, Rosey?" "No, Jack, certainly not." "Well, miss, you needn't look so fierce. A pity not, say I. Girls are of very little value nowadays unless they have a good supply of the chink to add to their charms." "Jack, you are positively vulgar, I hate you to talk to me like that." "All right, my dear. I have no desire to have any further conversation with you. I'm dead tired and have a headache. I shall go to bed." Jack mounted the stairs to his own loft in the roof, and, as soon as possible, I followed his example. Having locked my door and lighted the precious inch of candle which was all that was ever allowed me to go to bed with, I took a key out of my pocket, and unfastening the box which contained all my greatest treasures, proceeded to place some wax Christmas tapers in various small sconces, and then to light them one by one. I had quite an illumination, as I sat down by my dressing-table to examine leisurely the legacy which had been left to me that day.