No contrast could have been greater than this mass of incongruous elements, seen after the careful collection of Mr. Charles; and yet this, too, was not without its attraction. It looked like the chaos of a boy’s mind, a hopeless yet innocent confusion; all sorts of discordant things connected together by the sweet atmosphere of youth and possibility, out of which all harmonies might come. In the midst of this schoolboy chamber sat Marjory. She had a writing-case placed before her on a table, the key of which she held in her hand. Fanshawe recognised it at once. It was one which Tom had used constantly, which he had carried about with him everywhere. Tom’s sister looked up at him with a wistful and anxious glance. “Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, “this has been brought to me to open. My father cannot bear to look at anything, and I--I feel as if we had no right to search into his secrets. It seems dishonourable, when he cannot defend himself--when he is in our power.” Fanshawe went round to Marjory’s side, and took into his own the hand which, half unconsciously, she held out, appealing to him, and touched the fingers with his lips. Her eyes were full of tears, and the look she turned to him, asking for counsel and sympathy, went to his very heart. A slight colour came to her face at this answer to her appeal; but Marjory was not vain, and took it in no other light than as an impulse of sympathy. “Must I do it?” she asked. “Is there any reason why? is it necessary? must _you_ do it?” he asked. “Miss Heriot, your brother was but a man like others. There may be things he would not have had you see.” Once more Marjory blushed; but this time more hotly. She drooped her head not to look at him. “That is what I thought,” she said, very low. Then after a pause, she looked up suddenly in his face. “Mr. Fanshawe, you were his friend; you heard what he said about something to tell me. He thanked God at the last that he had told me, though he had not, you are aware. Do you know what it was?” “No.” It was a relief unspeakable to him to be able to say this. “I know none of his secrets--if he had any. So far as I am aware, he was irreproachable. I knew nothing of him which you might not have known.” “Thanks!” she said, with a smile, once more holding out her hand. How grateful she was to him for knowing nothing! “Do you think, if I keep it by me, to refer to in case of need--do you think that would do?” “Or your uncle might do it,” said Fanshawe. To his astonishment, she shrank from this suggestion. “Uncle Charles is very good and kind; but he would be hard upon poor Tom--he was always hard upon him. I must do it, if it has to be done. Must it be done? I am so unwilling to do it, that I cannot trust my own judgment. Oh! why cannot our little treasures, our secrets, our mysteries, be buried with us in our graves?” “He may have left a will--instructions--something that concerns others,” said Fanshawe, hesitating.