“You mean-- Wednesday, Uncle John?” She put out her hand and slid it into his, which rested on the table, or rather placed it, small and white, upon the brown, clinched hand, with the veins standing out upon it, with which he had almost struck the table. Wednesday was the day appointed for the funeral, to which, as a matter of course, half the county was coming. She pressed her uncle’s hand softly with hers. There was a faint movement of surprise in her mind that he, so strong, so capable of everything that had to be done, should feel it so. He gave a groan. “Of what comes after,” he said, “I can’t tell you what a terrible thing we have to do. God help that poor woman! God forgive her if she has done wrong, for she has a cruel punishment to bear.” “Mamma?” cried Rosalind, with blanched lips. He made no distinct reply, but sat there silent, with a sort of despair in the pose of every limb. “God knows what we are all to do,” he said, “for it will affect us all. You, poor child, you will have to judge for yourself. I don’t mean to say or suggest anything. You will have to show what mettle is in you, Rosalind; you as well as the rest.” “What is this terrible thing?” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, can’t you tell me? You make me wretched; I fancy I don’t know what.” John Trevanion raised himself from the table. His face was quite colorless. “Nothing that you can fear will be so bad as the reality,” he said. “I cannot tell you now. It would be wrong to say anything till she knows; but I am as weak as a child, Rosie. I want your hand to help me; poor little thing, there is not much strength in it. That hour with old Blake this morning has been too much both for him and me.” “Is it something in the will?” cried Rosalind, almost in a whisper. He gave a little nod of assent, and got up and began to pace about the room, as if he had lost power to control himself. “Charley Blake will not show. He is ashamed of his share in it; but I suppose he could do nothing. It has made him ill, the father says. There’s something--in Dante, is it?--about men being possessed by an evil spirit after their real soul is gone. I wonder if that is true. It would almost be a sort of relief to believe--” “Uncle John, you are not speaking of my father?” “Don’t ask any questions, Rosalind. Haven’t I told you I can’t answer you? The fact is, I am distracted with one thing and another, all the business coming upon me, and I can’t tell what I am saying. Where is that boy?” “I think he has gone to the stables, Uncle John. It is hard upon him, being always used to the open air. He doesn’t know what to do. There is nothing to amuse him.”