They found Madame Yvonett deep in conversation with Duncan. “Thee sees we have friends in common,” she announced, filling two glasses with the frothy beverage before her. “Help thyself to the sandwiches, Friend Barnard.” In spite of Chichester Barnard’s many attempts to ingratiate himself with the Quakeress, she had never dropped the formal address with him, although she had known his relatives for many years. “Where is thy Cousin Rebekah, Marjorie?” “I ’specs dat’s Miss Becky at de do’ now,” volunteered Minerva, emerging from the pantry as the bell sounded. “She done said she’d be back drickly.” “Ask her to come right in here,” called Madame Yvonett. “Ah, Becky,” seeing the spinster appear in the doorway. “Thee must be cold, come and have a glass of eggnog.” But Miss Rebekah declined the offer with some asperity; she considered eggnog the “devil’s brew,” and, but that a certain fear of Madame Yvonett’s displeasure restrained her, would then and there have delivered a forceful homily on strong drink. She had met Chichester Barnard on previous visits, and was a staunch admirer of the handsome lawyer, whose resemblance to her hero, Byron, made a strong appeal to her latent sentimentality. He greeted her warmly, and after Duncan was introduced, placed a chair for her next his own. “Where has thee been, Becky?” asked Madame Yvonett, turning back from giving directions to Minerva to bring the spinster a cup of weak tea. “I ran over to ask Admiral Lawrence if there was anything I could do for him,” explained Miss Rebekah. “Margaret Lawrence was my cousin, and being her only relative in Washington I thought it was the least I could do.” “Was she not related to thee, Friend Barnard?” inquired Madame Yvonett, turning to him. “I was only her nephew by marriage, but she was a good friend to me.” The regret in his voice and manner rang true, even to Marjorie’s watchful ears. “Mrs. Lawrence was a noble woman, and will be missed by many.” “She was very, very good to me,” a lump rose in Marjorie’s throat, and she hastily cleared her voice. “Did you learn any particulars of her death, Cousin Becky?” “Yes, I saw the nurse.” Miss Rebekah was in her element. She enjoyed nothing so much as the sound of her own voice, and particularly reveled in funereal topics; she attended her relatives’ obsequies both near and far, and the more harrowing the circumstances surrounding their deaths, the more her soul thrilled in morbid enjoyment. “The nurse--what’s her name, Marjorie?” “Do you mean Kathryn Allen?” “Yes, that’s she; such a pretty girl,” she interpolated. “Well, Nurse Allen told me that Cousin Margaret did not suffer toward the last; in fact, that during the past six weeks she never regained consciousness.” “Never regained consciousness,” repeated Barnard slowly. “What a blessed relief.”