“Of course you would.” Sara nodded understandingly. “If you could let me have a few days in which to find some rooms--” “No, no,” he broke in eagerly. “I want you still to regard Barrow as your headquarters--to stay on here with us until you have fixed some permanent arrangement that suits you.” She was touched by the kindly suggestion; nevertheless, she shook her head with decision. “It is more than kind of you to think of such a thing,” she said gratefully. “But it is quite out of the question. Why, I am not even a cousin several times removed! I have no claim at all. Mrs. Durward--” “Will be delighted. She asked me to be sure and tell you so. Please, Miss Tennant, don't refuse me. Don't”--persuasively--“oblige us to feel more brutal interlopers than we need.” Still she hesitated. “If I were sure--” she began doubtfully. “You may be--absolutely sure. There!”--with a sigh of relief--“that's settled. But, as I can see you're the kind of person whose conscientious scruples will begin to worry you the moment I'm gone”--he smiled--“my wife will write to you. Promise not to run away in the meantime?” “I promise,” said Sara. She held out her hand. “And--thank you.” Her eyes, suddenly misty, supplemented the baldness of the words. He took the outstretched hand in a close, friendly grip. “Good. That's the car, I think,” as the even purring of a motor sounded from outside. “I must be off. But it's only _au revoir_, remember.” She walked with him to the door, and stood watching until the car was lost in sight round a bend of the drive. Then, as she turned back into the hall, the emptiness of the house seemed to close down about her all at once, like a pall. Amid the manifold duties and emergencies of the last few days she had hardly had time to realize the immensity of her loss. Practical matters had forcibly obtruded themselves upon her consideration--the necessity of providing accommodation for the various relatives who had attended the funeral, the frequent consultations that Major Durward, to all intents and purposes a stranger to the ways of Barrow, had been obliged to hold with her, the reading of the will--all these had combined to keep her in a state of mental and physical alertness which had mercifully precluded retrospective thought. But now the necessity for _doing_ anything was past; there were no longer any claims upon her time, nothing to distract her, and she had leisure to visualize the full significance of Patrick's death and all that it entailed. Rather languidly she mounted the stairs to her own room, and drawing up a low chair to the fire, sat staring absently into its glowing heart. Virtually, she was alone in the world. Even Major Durward, who had been so infinitely kind, was not bound to her by any ties other than those forged of his own friendly feelings. True, he had been Patrick's cousin. But Patrick, although he had made up Sara's whole world, had been entirely unrelated to her.