The stealthy footsteps which belong to those who minister to the dead passed up and down the great house, Jason was setting out the simple “funeral baked meats” which are considered appropriate to the occasion, and Mr. Wordley paced up and down the hall with his hands behind his back, listening to the undertaker’s men upstairs, and glancing through the window in expectation of the carriage which had been sent for Mr. John Heron.  Presently he saw it rounding a bend of the drive, and went into the library to prepare Ida.

She raised her head but not her eyes as he entered, and looked at him with that dull apathy which denotes the benumbed heart, the mind crushed under its heavy weight of sorrow.

“I came in to tell you, my dear, that Mr. John Heron is coming,” he said.  “The carriage is just turning the bend of the drive.”  “I will come,” she said, rising and supporting herself by the heavy, carved arm of the great chair.

“No, no” he said.  “Sit down and wait here.”  He did not want her to hear the stealthy tread of the undertaker’s men, to meet the coffin which they were going to bring downstairs and place in the hall.  “I will bring him in here.  Is there anything you would like me to say to him, my dear?” he asked, and spoke with a certain hesitancy; for as yet he had not spoken of her future, feeling that her grief was too recent, too sacred, to permit of the obtrusion of material and worldly matters.

“To say to him?” she repeated, in a low, dull voice, as if she did not understand.

“Yes,” he said.  “I did not know whether you had formed any plan, whether”—­he hesitated again, “you had thought of going—­of paying a visit—­to these relations of yours.  He lives in the north of London, and has a wife and son and daughter, as you know.”

Ida passed her hand across her brow, trying to remember.

“Ah, yes,” she said at last, “I remember you told me about them.  I never heard of them before—­until now.  Why should I go to them?  Do they want me?  Have they asked me?”

Mr. Wordley coughed discreetly.  They certainly had not asked her, but he felt quite assured that an individual whose reputation for sanctity stood so high could not be so deficient in charity as to refuse a home to his orphan cousin.

“They have not sent you any definite invitation yet, but they will be sure to want you to go and stay with them, for a time, at any rate; and I think you ought to go.”

“I do not think I should like it,” said Ida, but indifferently, as if the question were of no moment.  “I would rather stay here”

Mr. Wordley polished his glasses very intently.

“I am afraid you’d find it very lonely at the Hall, my dear,” he said.  “In fact, I don’t think you could remain here by yourself,” he added, evading the direct gaze of the great, sad eyes.

“I should feel lonely anywhere,” she said.  “More lonely with people I don’t know, probably, than I should feel here, with Jessie and Jason—­and—­and the dogs.”