He reproached himself. Things might not, should not, have been so bad as this. In some way he might have helped her, if only by remaining near. Whilst he had dreamed at Wood End, this poor stricken soul had gone through the very valley of the shadow of death. He had not paid much heed to her letters; he had failed in sympathetic imagination; she had written so simply, so unemphatically. He reproached himself bitterly. “How good of you, Bernard, to come to me!” she said, regarding him through her tears. “I do want some one to be near me; I feel so helpless. Death is so dreadful.” She said it without stress of feeling, but the words were all the more powerful. Kingcote felt that they gave him a new understanding of pathos. She would not speak more of the dead man, knowing how her brother had regarded him. At his bidding she sat on the sofa, and by degrees overcame her weakness; he comforted her. “What shall I do, Bernard?” she asked, appealing to him with tearful eyes. “What is to become of the children? What is before us?” “At first, rest,” was his kind answer. “Don’t let a thought of the future trouble you; that is my affair. You shall never want whilst I live, Mary.” “Oh, it is hard to be a burden to you! I have burdened you for a long time. You have already done more for me than any brother could be asked to do. How can I let you?” “We won’t talk of these things yet; time enough. All I want now is to be some comfort to you.” “Oh, you are! It is so good to hold your hand. I feel you won’t desert me; I am so powerless myself.” They talked a little longer, then she was reminded that he had come a journey and needed food. “Who is that woman?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Mrs. Bolt? She has, you know, the other half of the house. There are corresponding rooms on each side, and she lets us this half. She has been very good indeed to me through it all. I don’t know what I should have done these last days without her. She has made meals and seen to the children. I was ashamed to give her so much trouble.” Kingcote did not reply to this. He merely said: “Then it won’t be necessary for her to come here?” “Oh no.” She understood his desire to be alone. “I will get the tea myself; I can do it quite well. It’s all ready.” She moved about and laid the table, letting her eyes rest upon her brother very often, trustfully and rather timidly. She had always regarded him with something of awe. He belonged to a higher social sphere than that which she had accepted. She attributed to him vast knowledge and ability. It was her fear lest she might do or say anything in his eyes censurable. “Are the children upstairs?” Kingcote inquired. “Yes; they have had their tea.” “You will bring them down afterwards?” “If you would like it, Bernard.” She had dreaded lest he should find their presence displeasing.