Presently after Mr. Fabian came in, and greeted his niece and his brother in a grave, muffled voice.

A little later breakfast was served.

“Some one should go up to see if grandpa will have anything sent to him.  Will you, Uncle Fabian?” inquired Cora, as they seated themselves at the table.

Mr. Fabian left his chair for the purpose, but before he had crossed the room they heard the heavy footsteps of the Iron King coming down the stairs.

He entered the dining room, and all arose to receive him.  He came up and shook hands with each of his sons in turn and in silence.  Then he took his place at the table.  The three younger members of the family looked at him furtively, whenever they could do so without attracting his attention, and, perhaps, awakening his wrath.

Some change had come over him, but not of a softening nature.  His hard, stern, set face was, if possible, more stony than ever.

Neither Mr. Clarence nor Cora dared to speak to him; but Mr. Fabian, feeling the silence awkward and oppressive, at length ventured to say: 

“My dear father, in this our severe bereavement—­”

But he got no further in his speech.  Old Aaron Rockharrt raised his hand and stopped him right there, and then said: 

“Not one word from any one of you to me or in my presence on this event, either now or ever.  It happened in the course of nature.  Drop the subject.  Fabian, how are matters going on at the works?”

“I do not know, sir,” replied Mr. Fabian, speaking for the first and last and only time, abruptly and indiscreetly to his despotic father.

But the Iron King took no notice of the words, nor did he repeat the question.  He drank one cup of coffee, ate half a roll, and then arose and left the table, without a word.  He did not return to his dead wife’s chamber, which he probably knew would now have to be given up to dressers of the dead and to the undertakers.

He went and locked himself in the library, and was seen no more that day.

Cora, with her woman’s intuition, understood the accession of hardness that was worn as a mask to conceal grief and remorse.

“Be patient with him, Uncle Fabian.  He is your father, after all.  And he suffers!  Oh, he suffers!  Yes; much more than any of us do,” she said.

“Do you think so, Cora?” inquired Mr. Fabian, looking at her in surprise.

“I know he does,” she answered.

“Well, he has good reason to!” concluded Mr. Fabian.  Then, after a pause, he added:  “But I am sorry I spoke roughly to my father!  I will make it up to him, or try to do so, by extra deference.”

Then they all arose from the table.

Mr. Fabian and Mr. Clarence to attend to the business of the mournful occasion, which Old Aaron Rockharrt, in his proud, reserved, absorbed sorrow, seemed to have ignored or forgotten.

Cora stepped away to her grandmother’s room, to have a quiet hour beside the beloved dead before the undertaker should come in and take possession.