his only child! And yet no tear of human or fatherly emotion generated itself out of his dry brain to moisten his hard little eyes. He stiffened himself in his chair and resumed the writing of his letters which announced the “sudden and awful bereavement” which had befallen him, and was charmed by the ease with which the tenderest expressions concerning his dead daughter flowed from his pen. And, after a long, sobbing, snoring sleep, Mrs. May woke up to the practical every-day points of the situation and realised that there could be no funeral. This was an awful blow! Unless--unless the poor body of the drowned woman came ashore there could be no black procession winding its doleful way through the flowering lanes of the little Devonshire village, where it would have been picturesque to make a “show” of mourning. So far, the sea had cheated the undertaker. “I cannot even put a wreath upon my darling’s coffin!” she moaned. “And she loved flowers!” Fresh sobs and tears followed this new phase of misfortune. Mrs. May was accustomed to find balm in Gilead for the death of any friend by sending a wreath for the corpse,--and her husband had been heard to say that if he died first he would be sure to have “a nasty wet wreath laid on his chest before he was cold.” Most of the burden and heat of the day fell on the maid, Grace Laurie, who had to take cups of soup, glasses of wine, and other strengthening refreshment to Mrs. May in her bedroom, and to see that Mr. May “had everything he wanted,” which is the usual rule of a house sustained by the presence of a man. She was an honest, warm-hearted girl, and was genuinely sorry for the loss of Diana, far more so than were the “bereaved” parents. Once, during the later afternoon, when it was verging towards sunset, she went to Diana’s room and entered it half trembling, moved by a sort of superstitious fear lest she should perhaps see the spirit of its late occupant. The window was open, and a rosy glow from the sky flushed the white muslin curtains with pale pink, and gave deeper colour to a posy of flowers in a vase on the dressing-table. Everything was scrupulously tidy; the servants had made the bed early in the morning, before the fatality had become known, and the whole room had an attractive air of peaceful expectation as though confident of its owner’s return. Grace opened the wardrobe,--there were all the few dresses Diana possessed, in their usual places, with two or three simple country hats. Was there anything missing? No sooner did this thought enter her head than Grace began to search feverishly. She opened drawers and boxes and cupboards,--but, so far as she knew, everything was as it always appeared to be. Yet she could not be quite sure. She was not Diana’s own maid, except by occasional service and favour,--her duties were, strictly speaking, limited to personal attendance on Mrs. May. Diana was accustomed to do everything