To think of his old friends, the inmates of the Abbey House, being threatened with poverty seemed almost too extraordinary to be true. Surely there must be a mistake somewhere! The kind doctor shook off the unpleasant doubt, and, pressing the girl's hand warmly, bade her farewell, with a last promise to call later and not forget to send the nurse. When he had gone, Margaret stole softly into her father's room, and gazed silently at the still figure upon the bed. The patient was breathing a little unevenly, but his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be sleeping. Old John sat by the bedside anxiously watching his master's face. Reassured by her father's peaceful attitude, his daughter went downstairs and did her best to do as Dr. Crane had told her. For she was sensible enough to realise that if there was trouble to be faced in the unknown future, giving way at the outset would be both foolish and cowardly. After all, she was a Woodford, and with the courage of her race she knew she must meet difficulties with a stiff lip. But it was a relief when Nurse Somers arrived, with her cheerful air of confidence and reliability, and took charge of the sick-room. The next few days were like a dream to Margaret; she seemed to live in another world. Her father rallied from this first attack, and was sufficiently recovered to spend some hours with his lawyer. Then his mind seemed to grow dull, and he talked feebly and childishly of the old happy days when his wife was alive and his daughter a little child--the sunbeam and plaything of the house. A few days of weakness followed, then came the night when the spirit took its flight from earth's habitation, quietly and silently, in answer to God's summons, and fled to that sorrowless land where all is joy and peace, and rest. And in the dawn of the morning the watchers saw only the hush of death's release for the master; "_God's finger touched him, and he slept._" Margaret did not break down; the sorrow seemed too much to bear, too much to understand at first. She felt numb with grief; her cold apathy disturbed the kind nurse, who stayed until the funeral should be over. "I wish she would cry," she remarked to the doctor; "this terrible calm is unnatural, and a fearful strain." "Yes--yes--poor child, the reaction will, I am afraid, be all the greater," he answered sympathetically; "but youth is bound to recover." But it was not until the day of the funeral that Margaret fully realised her loss, when she knelt by her window alone, the pale moon looking down upon her from the clear cold sky. Then the greatness of her bereavement came over her, and she felt, in all the sadness of realisation, the desolation of her future.