for herself, arranging and altering her own clothes, and even making them sometimes, so that Grace never quite knew what she really had in the way of garments. But as she looked through all the things hurriedly, they seemed to be just what Diana had brought with her from Richmond for the summer, and no more. The clothes found on the sea-shore Grace had herself placed on one chair, all folded in a sad little heap together. She opened the small jewel-box that always stood on the dressing-table, and recognised everything in it, even to the wristlet-watch which Diana always left behind when she went to bathe; apparently there was nothing missing. For one moment a sudden thought had entered her head, that perhaps Diana had run away?--but she as quickly realised the absurdity of such an idea! “How stupid of me!” she said. “She had no cause to run away.” She looked round once again, sadly and hopelessly,--then went out and closed the door softly behind her. She felt there was a something mysterious and suggestive in that empty room. Towards dinner-time Mrs. May struggled out of bed and sat up in an arm-chair, swathed in a voluminous dressing-gown. “I cannot go down to dinner!” she wailed, to Grace. “The very idea of it is terrible! Tell Mr. May I want to speak to him.” Grace obeyed, and presently Mr. May came in obedience to the summons, wearing a curious expression of solemn shamefacedness, as if he had done a mean trick some time and had just been found out. His wife gazed at him with red, watery eyes. “James,” she said, quaveringly, “it’s _dreadful_ to have to remember what you said last night about poor Diana!--oh, it’s dreadful!” “What did I say?” he asked, nervously. “I--I forget----” “You said--oh, dear, oh, dear! I hope God may forgive you!--you said Diana was ‘in the way!’ You did!--Our child! Oh, James, James! Your words haunt me! You said she was ‘_in the way_,’ and now she has been taken from us! Oh, what a punishment for your wicked words! And you a father! Oh, how shall we ever get over it!” Mr. Polydore May sat down by his wife’s chair and looked foolish. He knew he ought to say that it was indeed a dreadful thing, and that of course they could never get over it,--but all the time he was perfectly aware that the “getting over it” would be an easy matter for them both. He had even already imagined it possible to secure a young and pretty “companion housekeeper” to assist Mrs. May in the cares of domestic management, and, when required, to wait upon James Polydore himself with all that deferential docility which should be easy to command for a suitable salary. That would be one way of “getting over it” quite pleasantly,--but in reply to his wife’s melancholy adjuration, he judged it wisest to be silent. She went on, drearily: