“Mamma, you quite mistake in regard to both,” exclaimed Evelyn, in a pained, indignant tone; “Uncle Lester is not a designing person, and papa’s mind was not in the least enfeebled by his illness.”

“No, of course not; it can not be doubted that a child of your age is far more capable of judging than a woman of mine,” was the sarcastic rejoinder.

“Mamma, please do not speak so unkindly to me,” entreated the little girl, unbidden tears springing to her eyes; “you know you are all I have now.”

“No, you have your dear Uncle Lester and Aunt Elsie, and I foresee that they will soon steal your heart entirely away from your mother.”

“Mamma, how can you speak such cruel words to me?” cried Evelyn.  “I would not hurt you so for all the world.”

CHAPTER VI.

“Farewell; God knows when we shall meet again.” 
                                  SHAKSPEARE.

Laura said no more about breaking the will, but her manner toward Lester and Elsie was so cold and repellant that they were not sorry that she shut herself up in her own room during the greater part of each day while they and she remained at Crag Cottage.

Had they consulted only their own inclination, they would have taken their own departure immediately after seeing Eric laid in his grave; but Lester’s duties as executor and guardian made it necessary for them to stay on for some weeks.

The cottage was a part of Evelyn’s portion of the estate, but Laura was given the right to make it her home so long as she remained Eric’s widow.

Laura knew this, having read the will, but as that instrument made no mention of Eric’s desire that his daughter should reside with her guardian, she was not aware of that fact; and feeling well nigh certain that it would rouse her anger and opposition, Lester dreaded making the disclosure.

But while perplexing himself with the question how best to approach her on the subject, he found among his brother’s papers, a sealed letter addressed to her.

Calling Evelyn, he put it into her hand, bidding her carry it to her mother.

Half an hour later the little girl was again at his side, asking in tearful tones, “Uncle Lester, must mamma and I be separated?”

He was in the library, seated before a table, and seemed very busy over a pile of papers laid thereon; but pushing back his chair, he threw his arm round her waist and drew her to his knee.

“No, my dear child, not necessarily,” he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek; “your mother will be made welcome at Fairview if she sees fit to go with us.”

“But she wants to stay here and keep me with her; and it’s my home, you know, the dear home where everything reminds me of—­papa, Will you let me stay?”

“Do you really wish it, Evelyn? do you not desire to carry out the dying wishes of the father you loved so dearly?”