Her formal little way of saying his name was like Ann's. “Do I? I'm tickled to death. My mother died when I was ten, and I've never had any women kin-folks.” “Poor bo--” She had nearly said “Poor boy!” and only checked the familiarity just in time--“Poor Mr. Temple Barholm!” “Say, what are we two to each other, anyhow?” He put it to her with great interest. “It is a very distant relationship, if it is one at all,” she answered. “You see, I was only a second cousin to the late Mr. Temple Barholm, and I had not really the SLIGHTEST claim upon him.” She placed pathetic emphasis on the fact. “It was most generous of him to be so kind to me. When my poor father died and I was left quite penniless, he gave me a--a sort of home here.” “A sort of home?” Tembarom repeated. “My father was a clergyman in VERY straitened circumstances. We had barely enough to live upon--barely. He could leave me nothing. It actually seemed as if I should have to starve--it did, indeed.” There was a delicate quiver in her voice. “And though the late Mr. Temple Barholm had a great antipathy to ladies, he was so--so noble as to send word to me that there were a hundred and fifty rooms in his house, and that if I would keep out of his way I might live in one of them.” “That was noble,” commented her distant relative. “Oh, yes, indeed, especially when one considers how he disliked the opposite sex and what a recluse he was. He could not endure ladies. I scarcely ever saw him. My room was in quite a remote wing of the house, and I never went out if I knew he was in the park. I was most careful. And when he died of course I knew I must go away.” Tembarom was watching her almost tenderly. “Where did you go?” “To a kind clergyman in Shropshire who thought he might help me.” “How was he going to do it?” She answered with an effort to steady a somewhat lowered and hesitating voice. “There was near his parish a very nice--charity,”--her breath caught itself pathetically,--“some most comfortable almshouses for decayed gentlewomen. He thought he might be able to use his influence to get me into one.” She paused and smiled, but her small, wrinkled hands held each other closely. Tembarom looked away. He spoke as though to himself, and without knowing that he was thinking aloud. “Almshouses!” he said. “Wouldn't that jolt you!” He turned on her again with a change to cheerful concern. “Say, that cushion of yours ain't comfortable. I 'm going to get you another one.” He jumped up and, taking one from a sofa, began to arrange it behind her dexterously. “But I mustn't trouble you any longer. I must go, really,” she said, half rising nervously. He put a hand on her shoulder and made her sit again. “Go where?” he said. “Just lean back on that cushion, Miss Alicia. For the next few minutes this is going to be MY funeral.” She was at once startled and uncomprehending. What an extraordinary expression! What COULD it mean? “F--funeral?” she stammered.