Three days had passed since that incomprehensible thing misnamed on Earth as “life” had departed the unsightly physical of the young heir. The great surgeon, after having established--to his own satisfaction at least--that the patient had died of “nerve shock” and not of an operation which he pronounced successful in all details, had departed with his check. The servants were recovering from the emotional debauch of the last offices and beginning to think consciously, rather than subconsciously, in terms of tasks. The governess, immediately on her return from the cemetery where had been consigned to dust her second safe love, had sought the boy’s mother in her boudoir. She had come, she said, to express her appreciation of the many kindnesses heaped upon her and to announce her departure, since her engagement had come to so sudden and sad an end. Catherine, however, had insisted that she stay on in the house; in a pitiful outburst had clung to her as the one who had been nearest and dearest to the departed lad. Time enough later to decide in what capacity she should remain. Her gentle companionship was “comforting” to the bereaved mother. She must not “desert.” Dolores had hesitated, riven with doubts. She felt that she should go. Yet she longed to stay. Catherine was suffering from one of the headaches which would seem to have become chronic. Fragrant and pale as a valley-lily in her crepe, she looked a lovely child, dependent upon kindness. Dolores glanced away from the dew-wet eyes and compared her own sense of loss with what a mother’s must be. Although she had not forgotten that brutal anticipation of Jack’s death, hate hurt. Catherine looked in need of forgiveness and she---- She _needed_ to forgive. She was considering the somewhat vague disposal of her near future when Mr. Cabot knocked. Advised by the set look of his face and his grave manner, she at once excused herself; left them alone. Following is the conversation between them, as reported to her later on. “This is the first time in several years that you, my wedded lord, have visited my rooms. To what do I owe the rather unusual honor?” Catherine asked. “To a rather unusual request.” John did not draw up the chair toward which she had waved him. He stood through the interview--stood or paced from one object to another of the luxurious room. At times he stopped quite near the _chaise longue_ where she sat propped up by cushions, to study her guileless face and the suffering air with which she sniffed a gold bottle of salts. “The boy is dead, Catherine.” “Yes, John.” “I loved the boy.” “I believe you did. Still, he must have been a great disappointment to a fine specimen like you.” The compliment was repeated in her appreciative, uplifted gaze. But he felt far from pleased.