“I will write from Edinburgh,” she said hurriedly; “perhaps, after all, I shall be able to manage something in the future; and here”--handing two sovereigns to the doctor--“is my small share toward present expenses. When will the inquest be?” “To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in his arms. “And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. Graham quickly. “It must be a pauper’s funeral,” he answered, sadly; “any other would cost too much.” “Can we not get up a subscription? The railway company should give something. It seems so dreadful that she should be buried in a pauper’s grave, with no stone above her.” “I will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said, kindly. “Your suggestion about the railway is good, and I will communicate with the directors to-day. Whatever happens in the future, you, madame, have acted nobly, and this child owes you a debt of gratitude.” “Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. Graham responded, kissing the little cheek once more. “I must say good-by now. I will write to you in a day or two. Will you let me know if any news reaches you, and where you bury the poor mother?” “I will,” answered the doctor; then he turned away and carried the child, still happy and unconscious of her terrible loss, down the stairs, to his trap; and, taking the reins, he drove rapidly through the town to the village of Hurstley. CHAPTER III. “Stuart, where are you going?” The question was put in a cold, sharp voice, and came from a lady sitting at her writing-desk in a spacious window-recess overlooking extensive grounds. She was a handsome woman, with rather massive features and a profusion of dark-brown hair artistically arranged. Her eyes, of a light green-gray shade, were fixed at this moment on a young man standing in an easy, graceful attitude outside the French window. “Going, mother?” he responded. “Nowhere in particular. Do you want me?” Mrs. Crosbie examined her firm white hands for one brief second. “Have you forgotten what to-day is?” she asked, quietly. The young man pondered, puckered his handsome brows, and pretended to be lost in doubt. “I really forget,” he answered, after a while, looking up with a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. “Thursday, I believe; but you have your almanac close to your hand, mother.” “This is Thursday, the twenty-second of July, Stuart,” observed Mrs. Crosbie, putting down her pen and looking fixedly at her son. “And this afternoon your Aunt Clara and Cousin Vane will arrive, and you are expected to meet them at Chesterham station.” “By Jove,” exclaimed Stuart, with a soft whistle, “I had clean forgotten them!” He pushed his hands into his tennis-coat pockets and regarded his shoes with almost a real pucker on his brow. “What time are they due?” he asked, after a brief silence. Mrs. Crosbie took up a letter and read aloud: