She had not thought much about that little affair during late years, her feeling for Seymour Michael having settled down into a passive hatred. The longing to do him some personal injury had died away fifteen years before. She was, as a matter of fact, quite incapable of a lasting feeling of any description. Hers was a life lived for the present only. A tea-party next week was of more importance to her than a change in fortune next year. Some people are thus, and Heaven help those whose lives come under their fickle influence! The one permanent motive of her existence was her son Arthur--the puny little infant who had been prematurely ushered into a world that seemed full of hatred twenty years before--and even his image faded from mind and thought before the short Cambridge terms were half expired. At this moment she was thinking less of the death of Jem than of the approaching arrival of Arthur. There must have been something wrong with her mental focus, to which trifles presented themselves as of the first importance, to the obliteration of larger matters. “And this is all the news you have had?” inquired the Rector, rather hurriedly. He saw Sister Cecilia coming up the avenue, and that lady was for him the embodiment of the combination of those feminine failings which aggravated him so intensely. “Yes.” He moved towards the door, and standing there he turned, holding up a warning finger. “You must be very careful,” he said. “You must not consult any lawyer or take any steps in this matter. So far as you are concerned the state of affairs is unchanged. I, as the Squire's executor, am the only person called upon to act in any way if that poor boy has died without making a will. You must remember that your son is under age.” With that he left her, rather precipitately, for Sister Cecilia, like all busybodies, was a quick walker. In a few moments Miss Cecilia Harbottle entered the library. She glided forward as if afloat on a depth of the milk of human kindness, and folded Mrs. Agar in an emotional embrace. “Dear!” she exclaimed. “Dear Anna, how I feel for you!” In illustration of this sympathy she patted Mrs. Agar's somewhat flabby hands, and looked softly at her. She could hardly have failed to see a glitter in the bereaved one's eyes, which was certainly not that of grief. It was the gleam of pure, heartless excitement and love of change. But Sister Cecilia probably misread it; for, like all excesses, that of charity seems to dull the comprehension. “Tell me, dear,” she urged gently, “all about it.” How many of us imagine the satisfaction of our own curiosity to be sympathy!