"Only it was an assegai," retorted Clarice, scornfully; "your prophet made a mistake in the weapon." "The Domestic Prophet doesn't condescend to tell everything," said Mrs. Rebson, much offended, "but you can't say but what the murder hasn't taken place." "No," sighed the girl, "poor Uncle Henry." "We've had death and sorrow," went on the housekeeper, relentlessly, "and disgrace has still to come." "Disgrace! What nonsense." "So you said before, Miss. Don't scoff, when you know what's happened. Disgrace must come, as The Domestic Prophet plainly says." She turned over a few pages, and cleared her throat to read:--"If a crime of any nature has been committed by any person during the months of December, January, or February, that person, if hanged, will assuredly bring disgrace on those nearest and dearest to them. Let degenerates beware, says the seer." "Oh, what rubbish." Mrs. Rebson put the book in her pocket, took her spectacles off her nose, and rose in a stately manner. "Death has come," she said, in her most scathing voice. "Sorrow has come. You scoffed at both, being hard of heart. Now disgrace will befall this house, and----" "How can it?" asked Clarice, impatiently. "Osip doesn't belong to this house or to us. The disgrace falls on him since he is guilty." Mrs. Rebson had no answer for this, so retreated with dignity, her faith in the Domestic Prophet still unshaken "Mark my words, Miss Clarice, disgrace is coming," and with that she left the room, much to the relief of Miss Baird, who was very weary of the gimcrack sayings and pinchbeck philosophy which Mrs. Rebson set such store by. Scarcely had Mrs. Rebson departed, when Ferdy entered by the window. He looked tall and slim in his deep mourning, and very well content with himself. His grief for the guardian, who had been so kind to him, was apparently swallowed up by the reflection that he could soon be enjoying two thousand a year. His first glance round the drawing-room was in search of Barras. "Where's that lawyer chap?" asked Ferdy, producing a cigarette. "He has not arrived yet," replied Clarice, rather disgusted at this want of feeling. "How can you talk so, Ferdy, when poor Uncle Henry is just buried? Tell me about the funeral." "There's nothing to tell," said Ferdy, flinging himself into the most comfortable armchair; "it was much the same as other funerals." "You have no heart, Ferdy." "And no money," retorted the youth, coolly; "but that will soon be remedied, thank heaven." Clarice could not help smiling to herself, in spite of her grief, when she thought of how Ferdy would be disappointed. It then occurred to her that he had some especial desire in wanting the money so badly, and, pending the arrival of the lawyer, she asked questions. "I suppose you want your two thousand a year in order to marry Prudence." "Perhaps," said Ferdy, cautiously. "Perhaps," echoed his sister, raising herself angrily. "Why, you have proposed to Prudence."