of the casual conversation of an assumed miser with Rawdon, in which Rawdon was represented as saying:  “Dry sandy soil, well drained with two slopes, under a rain-shed, will keep millions in a cigar box.”  That the Squire noted; then he sealed up the rest of the papers, and addressed them to Hickey Bangs, Esq., D.I.R., ready for the post in the morning.  The colonel, Mrs. and Miss Du Plessis were all in Wilkinson’s room.  The colonel was commenting upon the four poor souls that had gone before God’s judgment seat, three of them, probably, with murder on their hands; and thanked God that his boy had died in the war, brave and pure and good, with no stain on his young life.  “When my boy was killed, my deah Fahquhah, I felt like the Electoh Palatine of the Rhine, when young Duke Christopheh, his son, fell at Mookerheyde, accohding to Motley:  he said ’’Twas bettah thus than to have passed his time in idleness, which is the devil’s pillow.’  Suh, I honouh the Electoh Palatine foh that.  What melancholy ghaves these pooah creatuhes fill.”  Then Mrs. Du Plessis wept, mildly, and Miss Du Plessis, and they all had to wipe a few tears out of Wilkinson’s eyes.  Had Coristine been there, he would have been scandalized.  The lawyer’s lady-love was engaged in very prosaic work in the sewing-room, with her aunt, running a sewing-machine to make much-needed clothes for the unhappy woman, whom the coroner’s jury, by a euphemism, called Rawdon’s wife.  The two had seen her off in charge of good old Mr. Newberry, and had promised to send her the work, which she herself had begun; and, now, they were toiling with all their might to redeem the promise, as early as possible, in spite of the tears that would come also into their foolish eyes, blurring their vision and damping their material.  Coristine, who longed for a sight of fresh young life after the vision of death, did not know what kept that young life within, and, like an unreasonable man, was inclined to be angry.  He was overwrought, poor fellow, sleepless and tired, and emotionally excited, and, therefore, ready for any folly under the sun.

Mrs. Carmichael had entered the house, with the Captain and Mr. Terry.  The lawyer remained alone in the garden, waiting for something to turn up.  Something did turn up in the shape of the stage on its way to the post office, which dropped its only passenger at the Bridesdale gate.  The passenger was a young fellow of about twenty-five, rather over than under middle height, of good figure, and becomingly dressed.  His features were good enough, but lacked individuality, as did his combined moustache and side whiskers, that formed a sort of imperfect W across his face.  He held his nose well up in the air, spoke what, in his ignorance, he fondly imagined to be aristocratic English, and carried, with an apologetic and depressed air, a small Gladstone bag.  The newcomer dusted his trouser legs with a cane utterly useless for walking purposes; then, adjusting his eye-glass, he elevated