He sat down beside her upon the steps of the sun-dial. No thought of anything beyond the deepest and tenderest sympathy was in his mind. It was his impulse to draw her close to him, to shelter her as much as his arm could, to make himself her prop and support; and this for love, yet not for love--as her brother might have done it, not her lover. But he dared not make this instinctive demonstration of tender pity and fellow-feeling. He sat by her, and read the letter, while she listened with her head bent down upon her knees, and her face covered with her hands. In the cheerful morning sunshine, within shelter of the old house which was so deeply concerned, he read as follows, his voice sounding solemnly and awe-stricken, like a funeral service, but so low as to be audible only to her ear. “I did not telegraph; I thought this would reach you soon enough. I am starting to come to you with poor Matty, and her fatherless boys. I wish I knew how to tell you that it might be easier than the plain facts; but I do not know what else to say. Your brother died at sea soon after we left. I had got to be very fond of him. I will tell you all he said when I come. And I hope you will try to look over Matty’s little faults--for he was very fond of her to the last. “We shall arrive soon after you receive this. I am very, very sorry. I do not know what more to say. “VERNA.” There was a long pause. She did not move or speak; she had to get over her grief as best she could, at once--to gulp it down, and think of the future, and how to tell her father he had no son. It was a hard effort, and this was the only moment she dared take to herself. As for Fanshawe, he sat beside her very sadly, looking at her, wondering if he ought to say anything--trying to think of something to say. What could he say? not anything about resignation; nor that it was better for Charlie. How did he know whether or not it was better for Charlie? He felt sad himself to the bottom of his heart, as if it was he who had lost a brother. Tears had come to his eyes, which did not feel like tears of sympathy. Then he touched her shoulder, her dress, softly with the ends of his fingers--so lightly that it might have been the dropping of a leaf; it was all he dared to do. Marjory started all at once at this touch--light though it was. “Yes,” she said; “it is true; there is no time to sit and think. I must give orders about their rooms--and--my father must know.” “Miss Heriot, my heart aches for you. Tell me, what can I do?” “Yes,” said Marjory; “I know it; you are as kind as--a brother. Oh me! oh me!--but stop me, please; I must not cry. The first thing is--my father must know. Mr. Fanshawe, will you go and see where he is?--if he is in the library? It is cowardly; but I seem to want a moment first; a moment--all to myself--before I tell him. Will you see if he is there?”