"Then you _have_ made up your mind?" questioned his brother, with guarded eagerness. "Definitely. It's all yours, Allan. It will help you in what you want to do. And not having it will help me to do what I want to do--make it simpler, easier. Take it--and for God's sake be good to Nancy." "I can't tell you how you please me, Bernal. Not that I'm avid for money, but it truly seems more in accord with what must have been grandfather's real wish. And Nancy--of course I shall be good to her--though at times she seems unable to please me." There was a sanctified displeasure in his tone, as he spoke of Nancy. It caused Bernal to turn upon him a keen, speculative eye, but only for a moment. And his next words had to do with matters tangible. "To-morrow I'll do some of the business that can be done here. Then I'll go up to Edom and finish the transfers that have to be made there." After a brief hesitation, he added: "Try to please _her_ a bit, Allan. That's all." CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH THE MIRROR IS HELD UP TO HUMAN NATURE When, the next day, Nancy went to pay her promised visit to Mrs. Eversley, the rectory was steeped in the deep household peace of mid-afternoon. Both Allan and Bernal had gone out soon after luncheon, while Aunt Bell had withdrawn into the silence, there to meditate the first letters of the alphabet of the inexpressible, to hover about the pleasant line that divides the normal from the subliminal. Though bruised and torn, Nancy was still grimly upright in the eye of duty, still a worthy follower of orthodox ways. Buried in her own eventful thoughts in that mind-world where love is born and dies, where beliefs rise and perish but no sound ever disturbs the stillness, she made her way along the shaded side of the street toward the Wyeth residence. Not until she had passed several doors beyond the house did she recall her errand, remember that her walk led to a goal, that she herself had matters in hand other than thinking, thinking, thinking. Retracing her steps, she rang the bell and asked for Mrs. Eversley. Before the servant could reply, Mrs. Wyeth rustled prettily down the hall from the library at the back. She wore a gown of primrose yellow. An unwonted animation lighted the cold perfection of her face, like fire seen through ice. "_So_ glad to see you!" she said with graceful effusion--"And the Doctor? And that queer, fascinating, puzzling brother of yours, how are they? So glad! Yes, poor sister keeps to her room and you really mustn't linger with me an instant. I'm not even going to ask you to sit down. Go right up. Her door's at the end of the hall, you know. You'll comfort the poor thing beautifully, you dear!" She paused for breath, a vivid smile taking the place of words. Mrs. Linford, rendered oddly, almost obstinately reserved by this excessive cordiality, was conscious of something unnatural in that smile--a too great intensity, like the greenness of artificial palms.