“I have been thinking that I ought to tell you, Bob,” she went on, disregarding his interest in her welfare, “that you have so much more than made up to my uncle. He has been happier than I ever expected to see him. I think that must be a help to you, Bob;” and, under the impression that he was suffering a very intimate sorrow, she gave him her hand. Vickers took it only for a moment, and then replaced it on her lap. They sat in the twilight of the darkened room for some time, talking of plans and arrangements. * * * * * The funeral took place on Friday, and Hilltop, which had always honored the name of Lee, turned out in full force. And to increase Vickers’s embarrassment, every member of the family came to pay the old gentleman a last token of respect. “You must stand near me, Nellie,” he said to her the morning of the funeral, “and tell me their names.” “Oh, you can’t have forgotten them, Bob,” she answered. “In the first place, Uncle Joseph, who gave you the goat when you were a little boy. You remember the goat, don’t you?” He merely smiled at her for answer, and taking his meaning, she returned quickly: “Ah, not to-day, Bob. I could not bear to think you would repudiate your father to-day.” Then, after a moment, for he said nothing, she went on: “Of course you remember Bertha and Jane. You used to be so fond of Jane. They are coming by the early train. They must have left Philadelphia before eight o’clock. I think that is wholly on your account, Bob.” Subsequently he discovered that they were daughters of a sister of Mrs. Lee’s, his supposed first cousins. They came some minutes before any one else. Vickers was alone in the parlor decorously drawing on a pair of black gloves, when they were ushered in. Fortunately they were quite unmistakable--two neat, rustling, little black figures, followed by a solitary male, whose name proved to be Ferdinand. Looking up, Vickers greeted them without hesitation: “Why, Jane and Bertha!” he cried. They lifted their veils, displaying cheerful and pretty countenances, and to his intense amusement, each imprinted a kiss upon his ready cheek. “Dear Bob,” said one of them, “we are so sorry for you. And yet how glad you must have been to be at home when it happened. Poor Uncle Robert! We haven’t seen him for years.” “Sam was so dreadfully sorry he could not come,” said the other, with a manner so frankly disingenuous that Vickers could not resist answering: “Aye, I suppose so!” Not in the least abashed, the little lady smiled back. “Well, it is strange,” she admitted, “that he always has a toothache when it is a question of a family funeral. He keeps one tooth especially, I believe.” And feeling that more friendly relations were now established, she continued: “How tall you are, Bob. Were you always as tall as that? You look sad, poor boy. Why don’t you come down after the ceremony, and stay a few weeks with us, and let us try to console you?”