“It is too true, Hawkins—recognition is impossible, not one of the five could be identified by its nearest friend. You make the selection, I can’t bear it.” “Which one had I better—” “Oh, take any of them. Pick out the best one.” However, the officers assured the earl—for they knew him, everybody in Washington knew him—that the position in which these bodies were found made it impossible that any one of them could be that of his noble young kinsman. They pointed out the spot where, if the newspaper account was correct, he must have sunk down to destruction; and at a wide distance from this spot they showed him where the young man must have gone down in case he was suffocated in his room; and they showed still a third place, quite remote, where he might possibly have found his death if perchance he tried to escape by the side exit toward the rear. The old Colonel brushed away a tear and said to Hawkins: “As it turns out there was something prophetic in my fears. Yes, it’s a matter of ashes. Will you kindly step to a grocery and fetch a couple more baskets?” Reverently they got a basket of ashes from each of those now hallowed spots, and carried them home to consult as to the best manner of forwarding them to England, and also to give them an opportunity to “lie in state,”—a mark of respect which the colonel deemed obligatory, considering the high rank of the deceased. They set the baskets on the table in what was formerly the library, drawing-room and workshop—now the Hall of Audience—and went up stairs to the lumber room to see if they could find a British flag to use as a part of the outfit proper to the lying in state. A moment later, Lady Rossmore came in from the street and caught sight of the baskets just as old Jinny crossed her field of vision. She quite lost her patience and said: “Well, what will you do next? What in the world possessed you to clutter up the parlor table with these baskets of ashes?” “Ashes?” And she came to look. She put up her hands in pathetic astonishment. “Well, I _never_ see de like!” “Didn’t you do it?” “Who, me? Clah to goodness it’s de fust time I’ve sot eyes on ’em, Miss Polly. Dat’s Dan’l. Dat ole moke is losin’ his mine.” p088.jpg (16K) But it wasn’t Dan’l, for he was called, and denied it. “Dey ain’t no way to ’splain dat. Wen hit’s one er dese-yer common ’currences, a body kin reckon maybe de cat—” “Oh!” and a shudder shook Lady Rossmore to her foundations. “I see it all. Keep away from them—they’re _his_.” “_His_, m’ lady?” “Yes—your young Marse Sellers from England that’s burnt up.”