"Mrs. Winthrop had not been through your terrible experiences of Monday night. Consequently, she had the strength to bear to-day's ordeal with outward composure." "Was it very dreadful at the cemetery?" "No, dear. The services at the grave were very simple, and, as the funeral was private, it attracted no morbid spectators." "Did anyone accompany you?" "Just the handful of people who were here for the house services." "Where is Aunt Charlotte?" "She went to her room to lie down." Cynthia raised herself on her elbow and glanced searchingly about the pretty sitting-room filled with its bird's-eye maple furniture. The yellow wallpaper, with its wide border of pink roses, chintz curtains and hangings, cast a soft yellow glow, which was exceedingly becoming, as well as restful to the eye. The afternoon sunshine came through the long French windows which overlooked a broad alley. "Eleanor, would you mind closing the door of my bedroom," she asked, "and please first see that--that Blanche isn't sitting there sewing." Eleanor glanced curiously at Cynthia as she rose, crossed to the adjoining bedroom, and softly closed the door. "There is no one in your room," she reported, on her return to her rocking-chair. Cynthia settled back among her pillows with an air of satisfaction. "At last I have you to myself. First the trained nurse, whom I didn't need, and then Aunt Charlotte, have always been hanging around, and I haven't had a chance to ask you any questions." "What is it you wish to know?" "Was there--was there--an autopsy?" Noting Eleanor's expression, she exclaimed hastily: "Now, Eleanor dear, _don't_ say I must not talk of Uncle James' death. The nurse wouldn't answer me when I spoke on the subject; said I must not think of the tragedy, that it was bad for me. Such nonsense! I would have asked Aunt Charlotte, but she's been so queer lately, not in the least like her own dear self." "Mrs. Winthrop is living under such great strain these days, Cynthia, it's not surprising. Her brother dead--Philip very ill----" "They told me he was better," hastily jerked out Cynthia, with a startled look in her big, brown eyes. "He is, now," Eleanor hesitated. "The doctor at first thought he might develop brain fever, but I am told all danger of that is past." "What is the matter with him?" persisted Cynthia. "I asked the nurse what the trouble was, but she never told me. Was his attack also caused by the shock of Uncle James' death?" "Yes, from shock," answered Eleanor, mechanically. "You must not blame your aunt if her manner is distrait; she is a very reserved woman and dreads, above all things, letting herself go and breaking down." "Oh, I hope she will keep well, she has been so unhappy. I can't bear to think of her suffering more, but," she laid her hand pleadingly on Eleanor's arm, "you haven't answered my question about the autopsy." "Yes, they held one." "And what was discovered?" eagerly.