There was a dull, hopeless ring about her voice that awoke his curiosity.  For what could she have wanted the money, and why did she no longer want it?

“I am sorry,” he said.  “Will you tell me what you wanted it so much for?”

She looked at him, and then, acting upon impulse rather then reflection, said in a low voice,

“If you like, I will show you.”

He bowed, wondering what was coming next.  Rising from her chair, Augusta led the way to a door which opened out of the sitting-room, and gently turned the handle and entered.  Eustace followed her.  The room was a small bed-room, of which the faded calico blind had been pulled down; as it happened, however, the sunlight, such as it was, beat full upon the blind, and came through it in yellow bars.  They fell upon the furniture of the bare little room, they fell upon the iron bedstead, and upon something lying on it, which he did not at first notice, because it was covered with a sheet.

Augusta walked up to the bed and gently lifted the sheet, revealing the sweet face, fringed round about with golden hair, of little Jeannie, in her coffin.

Eustace gave an exclamation, and started back violently.  He had not been prepared for such a sight; indeed it was the first such sight that he had ever seen, and it shocked him beyond words.  Augusta, familiarised as she was herself with the companionship of this beauteous clay cold Terror, had forgotten that, suddenly and without warning to bring the living into the presence of the dead, is not the wisest or the kindest thing to do.  For, to the living, more especially to the young, the sight of death is horrible.  It is such a fearsome comment on their health and strength.  Youth and strength are merry; but who can be merry with yon dead thing in the upper chamber?  Take it away! thrust it underground! it is an insult to us; it reminds us that we, too, die like others.  What business has its pallor to show itself against our ruddy cheeks?

“I beg your pardon,” whispered Augusta, realising something of all this in a flash, “I forgot, you do not know—­you must be shocked—­Forgive me!”

“Who is it?” he said, gasping to get back his breath.

“My sister,” she answered.  “It was to try and save her life that I wanted the money.  When I told her that I could not get it, she gave up and died.  Your uncle killed her.  Come.”

Greatly shocked, he followed her back into the sitting-room, and then—­as soon as he got his composure—­apologised for having intruded himself upon her in such an hour of desolation.

“I am glad to see you,” she said simply, “I have seen nobody except the doctor once, and the undertaker twice.  It is dreadful to sit alone hour after hour face to face with the irretrievable.  If I had not been so foolish as to enter into that agreement with Messrs. Meeson, I could have got the money by selling my new book easily enough; and I should have been able to take Jeannie abroad, and I believe that she would have lived—­at least I hoped so.  But now it is finished, and cannot be helped.”