It was eight o'clock when he arrived. The pretext of dinner in the house was over, and even the neighborly and professional attentions of the day were withdrawn. Rachel descended from her room in the quiet house at the sound of his entrance, and met gratefully the brotherly kindliness of his manner. They sat a few minutes in the hall, in question and answer of his journey and of the accident and all the circumstantial things which cluster about death itself. Rachel answered freely and fully, discovering a relief in breaking the instinctive repression of the day, and finding the sort of rest she had hoped for from his presence. David listened to her quietly, as he had always done, with his ready eye upon her. At last he rose, turning away from her with a comprehensive look about him. 'Where is he?' he asked abruptly. 'In the library,' said Rachel, with a movement to lead the way for him. 'In there?' exclaimed David, with the emphasis of surprise. Then he closed his lips again and followed her, without meeting her questioning look. But inside the door he paused again. Rachel had, constrained by long habit, looked first at the room, as she entered, and then at the casket, as a separate thing. The room had so long served to give her poise that she felt a sort of appeal to it even now. David's eyes rested first on the casket and then swept the room in a disapproving look. 'Why is he here?' he asked, with a curtness in his easy voice which Rachel had never heard from him before. 'Why--' she began hesitatingly, and then added vaguely, 'It seemed best.' 'Best for him?' responded David with the same curtness. Then he turned and dropped his head slowly over the figure in the coffin, and Rachel slipped away. David's manner seemed to put her entirely outside of the occasion. Later he joined her where she waited in the dim parlor. The still chilliness of the room was stiffening and depressing, but she had not made a fire because its open cheerfulness would not have seemed appropriate. David walked up and down the long room a few minutes in a silence which Rachel, not knowing his mood, did not break. Then he said, as abruptly as before, 'Can you have him moved in the morning?' 'Moved?--Where?' Rachel had not supposed that her brother-in-law would have the same feeling of incongruity that she had. 'Anywhere but there. Here--I don't know--there is no place in the house that seems to belong to him. The hall might do--at least he went through there every day,' he finished with an irony none too subtle. He began to walk up and down the length of the room, alternately facing her with a challenging air, and turning abruptly away again when he had neared her seat. But Rachel, absorbed still in her mood, was unappreciative of his manner. 'John never fitted into the house very well, anywhere,' she said, with reserved regret.