In the chamber above, where six weeks before Carrie had died, sat Margaret--not weeping; she could not do that--her grief was too great, and the fountain of her tears seemed scorched and dried; but, with white, compressed lips, and hands tightly clasped, she thought of the past and of the cheerless future. Occasionally through the doorway there came a small, dark figure; a pair of slender arms were thrown around her neck, and a voice murmured in her ear: "Poor, poor Maggie." The next moment the figure would be gone, and in the hall below Lenora would be heard singing snatches of some song, either to provoke her mother, or to make the astonished servants believe that she was really heartless and hardened. What Walter suffered could not be expressed. Hour after hour, from the sun's rising till its going down, he sat by his father's coffin, unmindful of the many who came in to look at the dead, and then gazing pitifully upon the face of the living, walked away, whispering mysteriously of insanity. Near _him_ Lenora dared not come, though through the open door she watched him, and oftentimes he met the glance of her wild, black eyes, fixed upon him with a mournful interest; then, as if moved by some spirit of evil, she would turn away, and seeking her mother's room, would mock at that lady's grief, advising her not to make too much of an effort. At last there came a change. In the yard there was the sound of many feet, and in the house the hum of many voices, all low and subdued. Again in the village of Glenwood was heard the sound of the tolling bell; again through the garden and over the running water brook moved the long procession to the graveyard; and soon Ernest Hamilton lay quietly sleeping by the side of his wife and children. For some time after the funeral nothing was said concerning the will, and Margaret had almost forgotten the existence of one, when one day as she was passing the library door her mother appeared, and asked her to enter. She did so, and found there her brother, whose face, besides the marks of recent sorrow which it wore, now seemed anxious and expectant. "Maggie dear," said the oily-tongued woman, "I have sent for you to hear read your beloved father's last will and testament." A deep flush mounted to Margaret's face, as she repeated somewhat inquiringly, "Father's last will and testament?" "Yes, dear," answered her mother, "his last will and testament. He made it several weeks ago, even before poor Carrie died; and as Walter is now the eldest and only son, I think it quite proper that he should read it." So saying, she passed toward Walter a sealed package, which he nervously opened, while Margaret, going to his side, looked over his shoulder, as he read.