“Sir Harold appointed yourself, my lady, the personal guardian of his daughter,” he said slowly. “Miss Wynde is to reside at Hawkhurst under your care until she becomes of age or marries. Upon the occurrence of either of those events your ladyship is to retire to Wynde Heights, or to whatsoever place you may prefer, leaving Miss Wynde absolute mistress of Hawkhurst. Of course if Miss Wynde desires you to remain after her marriage, or the attainment of her majority, you are at liberty to do as you please. I think you comprehend Sir Harold’s meaning. If it is not precisely clear, I will read the will--” “Do not!” interrupted Lady Wynde impatiently. “I abhor all that tedious phraseology. I understand that I am Miss Wynde’s sole personal guardian, that I am to direct her actions, introduce her into society, and that she is to give me the simple, unhesitating obedience of a daughter. Is this not so?” “It is,” assented Atkins, rather hesitatingly. “Sir Harold expresses the hope that his widow and his daughter will love each other; and that your ladyship will give to his orphan child a mother’s tenderness and affection.” “Sir Harold knew that he could depend upon my kindness to his child,” said Lady Wynde hypocritically. “I promised him before he went away to be a mother to her, although I shall be but a young mother, to be sure. I shall be very good to the poor girl, whom I love already. I don’t know anything about law, Mr. Atkins, but is not some other guardian also necessary--some one to see to the property, you know?” “There are three trustees appointed to look after the estate during Miss Wynde’s minority,” answered Atkins. “Sir John Freise is one. You know him well, my lady, and a more incorruptible, honest-souled gentleman than he does not exist. He is a man of fine business capacity, and Sir Harold could not have chosen better. I am also a trustee, and I can answer for my own probity, and for my great devotion to the interests of Miss Wynde.” “And the third trustee--who is he?” “The young Earl Towyn. He is the son of one of Sir Harold’s dearest friends, as you probably know, and his youth admirably balances Sir John’s age.” Lady Wynde looked thoughtful. Her gray companion bent over her work, embroidering a black monogram upon a black-bordered handkerchief, and did not look up. Her ashen-hued lashes lay on her ashen cheeks, and she looked dull, spiritless, a mere gray shadow, as we have called her, but Atkins, studying her face, had an uncomfortable impression that under all that coldness a fire was burning. “She’s more than she looks to be,” he thought keenly. “I wonder Sir Harold tolerated her in his house. How singularly she resembles a cat!” Lady Wynde presently broke the silence.