But Martha, whose fate it was to stand alone--to whom no one came to offer support--whose heart knew its own bitterness, and whose cares there was none to share or lighten, held with both hands the back of a chair, and bent over it heavily with a stoop like the stoop of age. Lettie, standing near her, drew close to Martha with the same impulse which drew Cuthbert to Rose, and Lettie laid her head softly against her elder sister’s arm. It moved the silent mourner into sudden irrestrainable tears, and she put out the arm which long exhaustion and straining had made almost rigid, and drew the child into her heart, pressing her there with a convulsive grasp. So were the sisters helped through this painful hour, each as suited her best. When they were again seated, Martha spoke: “My sister is ill--Mrs. Allenders--she cannot receive you, gentlemen, nor thank you. I thank you in her stead. I thank you for paying this respect--for doing all the honour that can be done now--I thank you--I thank you. Have I to do anything more?” And Martha looked round for a moment vacantly; she was forgetting herself like one in a dream. Then the lawyer rose and read the will. It bequeathed all the lands--everything of which Harry died possessed--to Martha Muir Allenders. There was nothing in it but the barest words, which made it a lawful document, and Harry’s signature at the end. A violent start came over Martha--a strange surprise upon the strangers present. “Poor little Mrs. Allenders!” they whispered to themselves, and wondered whether she would contest this will or no, or if it was worth her while, as they heard the land was greatly burdened. The only persons present who evinced no wonder, were Rose and little Lettie, to whom it seemed the most natural arrangement, that Martha should be their family head; but Sir John Dunlop rose coldly to shake hands with Miss Allenders of Allenders. He had no sympathy with her now. “Stay,” said Martha, “stay, I beg; there is something more to be said. Was he--he--able to execute this when he did it. Was his mind clear? Tell me--let me not say his name more than I must.” “Of sound mind,” said the writer gravely, “with perfect knowledge of what he was doing--cooler than I am now; he said he had broken your heart and lost your hopes--that he had nothing remaining but the land, and he would give it to you, to make a better use of it than he had done.”