On that third day the legal paper that I was to sign arrived by post. It was Sunday morning; I was alone in the schoolroom. In writing to me, the lawyer had only alluded to "a surviving relative of Sir Gervase, nearly akin to him by blood." The document was more explicit. It described the relative as being a nephew of Sir Gervase, the son of his sister. The name followed. It was Sextus Cyril Sax. I have tried on three different sheets of paper to describe the effect which this discovery produced on me--and I have torn them up one after another. When I only think of it, my mind seems to fall back into the helpless surprise and confusion of that time. After all that had passed between us--the man himself being then on his way to the house! what would he think of me when he saw my name at the bottom of the document? what, in Heaven's name, was I to do? How long I sat petrified, with the document on my lap, I never knew. Somebody knocked at the schoolroom door, and looked in and said something, and went out again. Then there was an interval. Then the door was opened again. A hand was laid kindly on my shoulder. I looked up--and there was Mrs. Fosdyke, asking, in the greatest alarm, what was the matter with me. The tone of her voice roused me into speaking. I could think of nothing but Mr. Sax; I could only say, "Has he come?" "Yes--and waiting to see you." Answering in those terms, she glanced at the paper in my lap. In the extremity of my helplessness, I acted like a sensible creature at last. I told Mrs. Fosdyke all that I have told here. She neither moved nor spoke until I had done. Her first proceeding, after that, was to take me in her arms and give me a kiss. Having so far encouraged me, she next spoke of poor Sir Gervase. "We all acted like fools," she announced, "in needlessly offending him by protesting against his second marriage. I don't mean you--I mean his son, his nephew, and myself. If his second marriage made him happy, what business had we with the disparity of years between husband and wife? I can tell you this, Sextus was the first of us to regret what he had done. But for his stupid fear of being suspected of an interested motive, Sir Gervase might have known there was that much good in his sister's son." She snatched up a copy of the will, which I had not even noticed thus far. "See what the kind old man says of you," she went on, pointing to the words. I could not see them; she was obliged to read them for me. "I leave my money to the one person living who has been more than worthy of the little I have done for her, and whose simple unselfish nature I know that I can trust." I pressed Mrs. Fosdyke's hand; I was not able to speak. She took up the legal paper next. "Do justice to yourself, and be above contemptible scruples," she said. "Sextus is fond enough of you to be almost worthy of the sacrifice that you are making. Sign--and I will sign next as the witness." I hesitated.