Evening drew on, but there was no note from Dick. At length, in the shamed reaction from her fears, she rang for a carriage and went upstairs to dress. She could stand aloof no longer: she must go to Darrow, if only to escape from her wicked thoughts of him. As she came down again she heard Dick’s key in the door. She hastened her steps, and as she reached the hall he stood before her without speaking. She looked at him and the question died on her lips. He nodded, and walked slowly past her. “There was no hope from the first,” he said. The next day Dick was taken up with the preparations for the funeral. The distant aunt, who appeared to be Darrow’s only relation, had been duly notified of his death; but no answer having been received from her, it was left to his friend to fulfil the customary duties. He was again absent for the best part of the day; and when he returned at dusk Mrs. Peyton, looking up from the tea-table behind which she awaited him, was startled by the deep-lined misery of his face. Her own thoughts were too painful for ready expression, and they sat for a while in a mute community of wretchedness. “Is everything arranged?” she asked at length. “Yes. Everything.” “And you have not heard from the aunt?” He shook his head. “Can you find no trace of any other relations?” “None. I went over all his papers. There were very few, and I found no address but the aunt’s.” He sat thrown back in his chair, disregarding the cup of tea she had mechanically poured for him. “I found this, though,” he added, after a pause, drawing a letter from his pocket and holding it out to her. She took it doubtfully. “Ought I to read it?” “Yes.” She saw then that the envelope, in Darrow’s hand, was addressed to her son. Within were a few pencilled words, dated on the first day of his illness, the morrow of the day on which she had last seen him. “Dear Dick,” she read, “I want you to use my plans for the museum if you can get any good out of them. Even if I pull out of this I want you to. I shall have other chances, and I have an idea this one means a lot to you.” Mrs. Peyton sat speechless, gazing at the date of the letter, which she had instantly connected with her last talk with Darrow. She saw that he had understood her, and the thought scorched her to the soul. “Wasn’t it glorious of him?” Dick said. She dropped the letter, and hid her face in her hands. IV The funeral took place the next morning, and on the return from the cemetery Dick told his mother that he must go and look over things at Darrow’s office. He had heard the day before from his friend’s aunt, a helpless person to whom telegraphy was difficult and travel inconceivable, and who, in eight pages of unpunctuated eloquence, made over to Dick what she called the melancholy privilege of winding up her nephew’s affairs. Mrs. Peyton looked anxiously at her son. “Is there no one who can do this for you? He must have had a clerk or some one who knows about his work.”