‘My poor Beatrix, I cannot understand you.’ ‘Am I so eccentric in liking to sit by my fireside quietly, and suffer in silence?’ asked Beatrix, with a wintry smile. ‘I should have thought any one would have preferred that to being the object of perpetual consolation.’ This was a strong-minded view of the case which Mrs. Dulcimer could by no means understand. It seemed to remove Beatrix further away from her. But then she had always been able to get on better with Bella than with Beatrix. ‘You are not without friends, Beatrix, and advisers in this hour of trouble,’ she said, encouragingly. And then she told Beatrix about the two lawyers to whom the Vicar and his curate had written. ‘Strange, was it not, that Cyril and my husband should both think of the same thing?’ ‘Very strange,’ said Beatrix, deeply thoughtful. ‘You see, my dear, the important question is, where did your father get the laudanum?’ ‘Oh, I think I know that,’ answered Beatrix. ‘You know, and did not tell the coroner? How very foolish!’ ‘I did not think of it yesterday. I could think of nothing. I felt as if I had lost myself in some hideous dream. But this morning, in my mother’s room--I am free to go into my mother’s room now--the idea occurred to me. It must have been there my poor father found the laudanum.’ ‘How do you know that?’ asked Mrs. Dulcimer, eagerly. Beatrix described her former visit to her mother’s room, and how she had found a medicine chest there, and in the medicine chest a bottle half full of laudanum. ‘I looked at the bottle this morning,’ she said, ‘and it was empty.’ ‘And your father was found lying dead in that room. Nothing can be clearer,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘The coroner ought to be communicated with immediately. How glad Clement will be! This will stop people’s mouths.’ ‘What people?’ asked Beatrix. ‘Those horrid people who are always ready to think the worst of their neighbours. I shall go back to the Vicarage at once. Clement ought to know without a moment’s delay. How I wish you could eat your Christmas dinner with us, poor child! Kenrick has come back, looking so handsome, and so full of Culverhouse Castle. What a noble old place it must be! and what a pity he cannot afford to live in it!’ Beatrix did not hear a word about Culverhouse Castle. ‘Cyril will be with you too, I suppose?’ she said presently. ‘No; it’s extremely tiresome. Poor Cyril has one of his bad headaches, and says his only chance of getting through his evening duty is to keep quietly at home between the services. I feel quite annoyed. We have such a superb turkey. Rebecca chose it at Moyle’s farm six weeks ago. It was a great fierce creature, and flew at her like a tiger when she went into the poultry-yard. Well, good-bye, dear. Pray keep up your spirits. Clement will be so glad to know about the laudanum.’