“I feel so tranquil about my end,” Mrs. Acton went on.  “It is coming so easily, so surely.”  And she paused, with her mild gaze always on Eugenia’s.

The Baroness hated to be reminded of death; but even in its imminence, so far as Mrs. Acton was concerned, she preserved her good manners.  “Ah, madame, you are too charming an invalid,” she rejoined.

But the delicacy of this rejoinder was apparently lost upon her hostess, who went on in her low, reasonable voice.  “I want to leave my children bright and comfortable.  You seem to me all so happy here—­just as you are.  So I wish you could stay.  It would be so pleasant for Robert.”

Eugenia wondered what she meant by its being pleasant for Robert; but she felt that she would never know what such a woman as that meant.  She got up; she was afraid Mrs. Acton would tell her again that she was dying.  “Good-by, dear madame,” she said.  “I must remember that your strength is precious.”

Mrs. Acton took her hand and held it a moment.  “Well, you have been happy here, have n’t you?  And you like us all, don’t you?  I wish you would stay,” she added, “in your beautiful little house.”

She had told Eugenia that her waiting-woman would be in the hall, to show her down-stairs; but the large landing outside her door was empty, and Eugenia stood there looking about.  She felt irritated; the dying lady had not “la main heureuse.”  She passed slowly down-stairs, still looking about.  The broad staircase made a great bend, and in the angle was a high window, looking westward, with a deep bench, covered with a row of flowering plants in curious old pots of blue china-ware.  The yellow afternoon light came in through the flowers and flickered a little on the white wainscots.  Eugenia paused a moment; the house was perfectly still, save for the ticking, somewhere, of a great clock.  The lower hall stretched away at the foot of the stairs, half covered over with a large Oriental rug.  Eugenia lingered a little, noticing a great many things.  “Comme c’est bien!” she said to herself; such a large, solid, irreproachable basis of existence the place seemed to her to indicate.  And then she reflected that Mrs. Acton was soon to withdraw from it.  The reflection accompanied her the rest of the way down-stairs, where she paused again, making more observations.  The hall was extremely broad, and on either side of the front door was a wide, deeply-set window, which threw the shadows of everything back into the house.  There were high-backed chairs along the wall and big Eastern vases upon tables, and, on either side, a large cabinet with a glass front and little curiosities within, dimly gleaming.  The doors were open—­into the darkened parlor, the library, the dining-room.  All these rooms seemed empty.  Eugenia passed along, and stopped a moment on the threshold of each.  “Comme c’est bien!” she murmured again; she had thought of just such a house as this when she decided