She was assisted in her responsible duties by the Senior Tutor of St. Benedict's, who would in the natural course of things succeed to the office of Master when it should fall vacant. Mary Rae was a handsome woman well on in the thirties. She was a woman who could not help looking handsome at any age, and the few gray hairs that had put in an appearance in the smooth brown bands drawn back from her broad forehead only added a new dignity to her mature beauty. Perhaps the Senior Tutor thought that they supplied the only touch lacking to make Mary Rae a perfect and ideal mistress of a college lodge. It was whispered in the combination room, where the old Fellows met after their Hall dinner, and discussed the affairs of the college over their walnuts and their wine, that when the Master received his last preferment she would not have to pack up her small belongings and leave the lodge. It was one morning early in the Lent term that Mary Rae sat at breakfast in the cheerful bow-windowed room of the lodge. The Doctor's wife still presided over the breakfast table. She was younger than the Doctor, and had worn better. She was still active and cheerful--a bright, gentle, patient old soul, ever watchful and considerate for his comfort, and anticipating his every want. While Mrs. Rae poured out the Master's tea, Mary Rae buttered the Master's toast and read his letters. There were not many letters this morning, but there was one with a black seal that lay uppermost. The writing was unfamiliar, and before opening it Mary glanced at the postmark. 'A letter from Dick, uncle,' she said across the table. She had to speak in rather a high key, as the Doctor was a little deaf, and some days he was deafer than usual. 'What does Dick say, my dear?' he said, smiling at her across the toast she had buttered for him. His voice was not very strong, but there was no North-country burr in it now--a kind, mellow old voice, courteous and gentle in tone, with a quaver in it now and then. 'I have not heard from your uncle Dick for a long time. I am very glad he has written now. I cannot remember when I last heard from him.' 'It is not from Uncle Dick,' said Mary, opening the letter; 'it is from his son--at least, his grandson--Cousin Dick, of Thorpe Regis. Don't you remember, uncle?' 'Ye--es, my dear; and what does Dick say?' Mary read the letter in silence, and looked across the table with a shade of anxiety on her face. 'It is not Cousin Dick who writes; the letter is from his daughter; he had only one daughter--Lucy, little Lucy. You remember her, uncle?' Mary Rae was evidently speaking to gain time, and the shade of anxiety deepened on her face as she spoke. 'Ye--es, I remember, my dear. Lucy was her mother's name; she was called after her mother. What has Lucy got to say about Dick?'