“My dear Grace,” said John, clearing his voice, which trembled, “we have taken the liberty to ask you to come here, instead of going to you.” “I am very glad to come if you want me, John,” she said, simply, with a frankness and ease which confused them more and more. “Because,” he went on, clearing his throat again, endeavoring to control his voice, “because we have something--very painful to say.” “Very painful; more painful than anything I ever had to do with in all my life,” Mr. Blake added, in a husky voice. She looked from one to another, questioning their faces, though neither of them would meet her eyes. The bitterness of death had passed from Mrs. Trevanion’s mind. The presentiment that had hung so heavily about her had blown away like a cloud. Sitting by the fire in the innocent company of Sophy, with Rosalind by her, the darkness had seemed to roll together and pass away. But when she looked from one of these men to the other, it came back and enveloped her like a shroud. She said “Yes?” quickly, her breath failing, and looked at them, who could not meet her eyes. “It is so,” said John. “We must not mince our words. Whatever may have passed between you two, whatever he may have heard or found out, we can say nothing less than that it is most unjust and cruel.” “Savage, barbarous! I should never have thought it, I should have refused to do it,” his colleague cried, in his high-pitched voice. “But we have no alternative. We must carry his will out, and we are bound to let you know without delay.” “This delay is already too much,” she said hurriedly. “Is it something in my husband’s will? Why try to frighten me? Tell me at once.” “God knows we are not trying to frighten you. Nothing so terrible could occur to your mind, or any one’s, Grace,” said John Trevanion, with a nervous quivering of his voice. “The executioner used to ask pardon of those he was about to-- I think I am going to give you your sentence of death.” “Then I give you--my pardon--freely. What is it? Do not torture me any longer,” she said. He thrust away his chair from the table, and covered his face with his hands. “Tell her, Blake; I cannot,” he cried. Then there ensued a silence like death; no one seemed to breathe; when suddenly the high-pitched, shrill voice of the old lawyer came out like something visible, mingled with the flaring of the candles and the darkness all around. “I will spare you the legal language,” said Mr. Blake. “It is this. The children are all provided for, as is natural and fit, but with this proviso--that their mother shall be at once and entirely separated from them. If Mrs. Trevanion remains with them, or takes any one of them to be with her, they are totally disinherited, and their money is left to various hospitals and charities. Either Mrs. Trevanion must leave them at once, and give up all communication with them, or they lose everything. That is in brief what we have to say.”