"Pooh! We can leave that affair in the hands of a lawyer," he replied, carelessly. He was determined that nothing should hinder this opportune trip. He was anxious to get Kathleen away from Boston, where Ralph Chainey was playing every night to crowded houses. It would seem as if Uncle Ben had as vigorous a dislike for actors as his dead brother had cherished. So he carefully smoothed away all her objections, declaring that he had money enough to take them both to Richmond, and that she could repay him, if she insisted on it, when she got back her diamonds. "I wonder if papa thought, when he gave them to me, that some day they would be my sole little fortune!" sighed the young girl. Uncle Ben did not answer. He was looking out of the window at the country scenery, for they were on their journey now. Kathleen was sitting opposite to him in the parlor car, with a big bouquet of roses in her lap, the gift of the adoring Teddy, from whom she had just parted at the station. "A noble young fellow," Uncle Ben had said, and his niece answered, with a little sigh: "He has been very good to me; but, Uncle Ben, he is called the greatest flirt in Boston, and I shouldn't wonder if he threw me over at any time for a newer fancy." "You are just wishing he would!" the old man exclaimed, curtly, and she replied only by a roguish laugh. The train rushed on and on through the wintry landscape, and both of them grew very thoughtful. At last Kathleen touched her uncle's arm with a timid hand. "Uncle Ben, this going home to my mother's people makes me think so much about _her_ to-day. Tell me, did you ever see mamma?" The man's strong arm trembled under the pressure of her little white hand, and he answered in a voice that was hoarse with emotion: "Yes, I knew little Zaidee--poor little darling!" "Was she as beautiful as the portrait a great artist made of her? There is one that hangs in my room at my old home. It is beautiful as an angel, and papa used to come there often to look at it. I don't think he cared for my step-mother to know how often he came." "Zaidee was more beautiful than the portrait," answered the old man, in a low voice. He pressed her little hand tenderly as it rested on his arm, and said: "Tell me all that you know about your mother, my child." "They have told me that she died by her own hand. Was it not terrible?" whispered the young girl, with paling lips. "Terrible!" he echoed, with emotion; and then she asked: "Uncle Ben, who was to blame for that awful tragedy?" "No one," he answered, sadly. "Zaidee was passionate, willful, jealous. She became madly jealous of a governess--a young widow who was employed in the house to teach her painting and music. Before poor Vincent at all comprehended the situation, his young wife, in a fit of anger, destroyed herself by thrusting a little jeweled dagger into her breast." "And you are sure no one was to blame?" she persisted and after a moment's hesitation he replied: