His continued vigils at "Solitude," and the profound grief that could not find vent in tears or words, had printed characters on his pale, wearied face, that should have commanded the sympathy of all who shared his friendship; but the sight of his worn features and the sound of his slow step only embittered the heart of the orphan, who saw in these evidences of fatigue and anxiety new manifestations of affection for the patient who was not yet entirely beyond danger. Four days after the funeral, Dr. Grey came in to breakfast later than usual, having driven over very early to "Solitude;" and, as he seated himself at the table and received from Muriel's hand a cup of coffee, he leaned forward and kissed her rosy cheek. "Thank you, my child. You are very kind to wait for me." "How is that poor Mrs. Gerome? Will she never be well enough to dispense with your services?" Once, Salome would have answered, "He hopes not;" but now she merely turned her head a little, to catch his reply. "She is better to-day than I feared I should find her, as some alarming symptoms threatened her yesterday; but now I think I can safely say the danger has entirely passed." Muriel hung over the back of his chair, pressing him to try several dishes that she pronounced excellent, but he gently refused all except the coffee; and, when he had pushed aside the empty cup, he drew the face of his ward close to his own, and murmured a few words that deepened the glow on her fair cheeks, while she hastily left the room to read a letter. For some moments he sat with his head resting on his hand, thinking of the dear old face that usually watched him from the corner of the fire-place, and of the kind words that were showered on him while he breakfasted; but to-day the faded lips were frozen forever, and the dim eyes would never again brighten at his approach. He sighed, brushed back the hair that clustered in glossy brown rings on his forehead, and rose. "Salome, if you are not particularly engaged this morning, I should be glad to see you in the library." "At what hour?" "Immediately, if you are at leisure." The orphan put aside the fold of crape which she was converting into a collar, and inclined her head slightly. Since that brief and painful interview held beside Miss Jane's coffin, not a syllable had passed between them, and the girl shrank with a vague, shivering dread from the impending _tete-a-tete_. Silently she followed the master of the house into the library, where Dr. Grey drew two chairs to the table, and, when she had seated herself in one, he took possession of the other. Opening a drawer, he selected several papers from a mass of what appeared to be legal documents, and spread them before her. "I wish to acquaint you with the contents of my sister's will, which I examined last night. Will you read it, or shall I briefly state her wishes?" "Tell me what you wish me to know." She swept the papers into a pile, and pushed them away.