cough as he began to gather up his papers. He had an angular face, square forehead, blocked in nose, and eyes which seemed like two triangles set beneath indefinite brows, but his smile was kindly as he said: "Now, don't worry, Miss Nancy. There will probably be no objection to your staying here as long as you wish, though I wish to impress it upon you that our home is open to you at any time that you may feel you would be ready to come to it."

"I do appreciate your saying so," returned Nancy earnestly, "but you can understand that my own home must seem more of a refuge than any other place just now. It is all so dear to me, hallowed by so many precious memories. Parthy and Ira will take good care of me."

"I am sure of that," Mr. Weed replied in his stiff little manner. "So then, Miss Nancy, we will leave the question open for the present and in the meantime you can be looking over the papers. You can let me know when you wish to consult me about them and I will advise you to the best of my ability. I trust you will believe that I wish to spare you all the trouble that I can, and that I will serve you as faithfully as I would any of the family. We Weeds have attended to the Loomis's legal matters for generations and I think we have never failed them yet. Now, no matter what happens, you must not worry." He gave her shoulder a wooden sort of pat and went out, leaving the girl to ponder over what he had said, but, as he walked down the gravelled path he murmured to himself. "I could not do it. Not yet, not yet. Let her find it out for herself."

"Better get it over with," sighed Nancy, as she watched the lawyer's stiff figure mount his buggy. "Ah, me, I wish mamma's sisters had not died young. I wish I had a real live aunt or an older sister to help me through all this terrible business. I must be brave," she told herself. "I have to be," she repeated as she searched for the keys. In time she found them and sat down before the old escritoire which was a familiar object in Mrs. Loomis's sitting-room. "I cannot, oh, I cannot," she whispered chokingly as she began to draw out papers from the various pigeon-holes. The papers were thrust rather loosely into the most convenient spot, or, unlabeled, were scattered about in a drawer. Most of these she was able to sort without difficulty. A packet of letters, tied with a black ribbon was marked "From my dear husband." These Nancy put aside reverently, then removed a smaller packet which had lain beneath them. There was nothing to indicate the correspondent, but some were post-marked Havana, some New Orleans. There were not more than half a dozen and, because they were so 

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