The river suggested to her, as it does to all--the resistlessness of fate--she was inexpressibly affected by this new and terrible disappointment. After having known so little happiness she had got into so quiet a haven; and once more, after feeling safe and happy, she was dragged out into the rough waves of life to commence a battle again. It crossed her mind that there might be some appeal--some one might help her to avert this; she was a widow and no longer a girl; how was it that she was so much in her brother's hands? Could Mr. Macfarlane not unravel it. She had a secret dread giving up her husband's papers--perhaps something might be found in them that might harm his memory, and since his death she thought so much more tenderly of him, and remembered him with so much more affection than she had done during his life, in spite of her contempt for his abilities. But still she blamed him for not having kept her safe out of this position of dependence which had been her great hope when she had married him. She forgave him now his want of success, but that--it was so hard and it was so unfair to her. She was deep in these thoughts when she was roused by the crunching of the gravel under her window, and she went down to the room looking so bare and desolate, stripped of its flowers, its quaint bits of china, of everything that made it homelike--to receive Mr. and Mrs. Macfarlane. Mrs. Macfarlane was a cheerful and a pleasant woman, but was much too warm-hearted to be overpoweringly and oppressively cheerful when it would have been hard for another to respond. She had the tact of a kind-hearted woman, which is a much more reliable thing than the tact acquired from the constant friction of society. In a few moments they were all three having tea, the fire was making up for other deficiencies, and, though Jean made an apology about the best cups, no one had thought of anything as missing. Mrs. Dorriman had been very greatly troubled about the papers; she herself had never dared to go into them thoroughly as we know--she was afraid of seeing something in those records that might distress her, about her husband. But for this dread, she felt sometimes curious to know how these papers affected her brother, and she did not know what to do about them. She did not dare take them with her because she knew that if she did her brother would soon make himself master of them; she could not lock them up as the place was sold, and when she thought of that she always had a lump in her throat. All the time she was drinking her tea she was wondering what to do, and longing to consult Mr. Macfarlane about it, kept back by her overpowering timidity. He himself came to the rescue: he asked her if she wished to leave anything behind, and said he and his wife would be glad to take charge of anything for her.