The old man had been very fond of Rossie, and for a few moments he walked up and down the little back office with his hands behind him and his head bent down, then stopping suddenly he gave vent to the exclamation “By George!” uttered in such a tone that Everard looked up quickly and inquiringly, and said: “What is it? What’s the matter?” “Ned, my boy, look here. This may not be the time nor place to speak of such a thing, but hanged if I can help it,” the lawyer replied, coming close to Everard and continuing, “I take it that you considered Rosamond Hastings to have been the lawful devisee to your father’s estate.” “I know she was,” Everard said; and the lawyer went on in a choking voice: “Poor little girl! She rebelled against it hotly, and would have deeded it to you if she had lived to come of age,—there’s nothing surer than that. But you say she’s dead, and she not twenty yet till June, and don’t you see, in spite of fate, the estate goes to her brother, who is her heir-at-law, and that’s what I call hard on you. I know nothing of the man except what you have told me, but if the half of that is true, he is a scamp, and will run through the property in a quarter of the time it took to make it. Maybe, though, he has some kind of honor about him, and if Rossie knew she was going to die, you may be sure she put in a plea for you, and perhaps he will divide; that’s the best you can hope for. So we won’t despair till we hear from the brother. There’s another mail from the north to-night. A letter may come by that. It ought to have been here with the paper. It’s a bad business all round,—very bad. Rossie dead; poor Rossie, the nicest girl and most sensible that ever was born, and the property gone to thunder!” The old man was a good deal moved, and began again to walk the floor, while Everard laid his head upon the table in a half stupefied condition. Not that he then cared especially what became of his father’s money, though the thought that it would go to the man he hated most cordially was a fresh shock to his nerves, but it was nothing to losing Rossie. That was a grief which it seemed to him he could not bear. Certainly he could not bear it alone. He must tell it to some one who would not, like Lawyer Russell, talk to him of money; and when it began to grow dark, so that no one could see how white and worn he was, he arose and walked slowly up to Elm Park, sure of finding a ready and hearty sympathy there. “Oh, Everard, what is it?” Beatrice asked, when she first met him and saw his white, haggard face. He answered her as he had answered Mr. Russell, “Rossie is dead,” and then seated himself again in the chair from which he had arisen when she came in. Beatrice’s tears were falling like rain, but Everard’s eyes were as dry as if he had never thought to weep, and there was such a fearful expression of anguish on his face that Beatrice went up to him, and laying her hand on his head, said, pityingly: