Nevertheless Katherine observed that her mother did not settle to her writing as usual.  Occasionally she shut herself up in the study, but when Katherine came in unexpectedly she generally found her resting her elbow on the table and her head on her hand, gazing at the blank sheet before her, or leaning back in her chair, evidently lost in thought.

“You do not seem to take much to your writing, mother dear,” said Katherine one morning as she entered and sat down on a stool beside her.

“In truth I cannot, Katie.  I do not know how it is, but no plots will come.  I have generally been able to devise something on which to hang my characters and events; but my invention, such as it is—­or rather was—­seems dried up and withered.  What shall I do if my slight vein is exhausted?  Heaven knows I produced nothing very original or remarkable, but my lucubrations were saleable, and I do not see how we can do without this source of income.”

“You only want rest,” returned Katherine, taking her hand and laying her cheek against it.  “Your fancy wants a quiet sleep, and then it will wake up fresh and bright.  Take a holiday; put away pen, ink, and paper; and you will be able to write a lovely story long before the money we expect for your novel is expended.”

“I hope so.”  She paused, and then resumed, with a sigh:  “I ought to have more sense and self-control at my age, but I confess that the uncertainty about John Liddell’s will absorbs me.  Suppose, Katie, that his money were to come to you.  Imagine you and I rich enough not to be afraid of the week after next!  Why, our lives would be too blissful.”

“They would,” murmured Katherine.  “When do you think we shall know?”

“I cannot tell.  All possible search must be made before the law can be satisfied.  My own impression is that your uncle did destroy his will, intending to make a different distribution of his money, and to provide for you.”

“Yes, I believe he did,” said Katherine, quietly.  “I wish—­oh, I do wish my uncle had had time to divide his property between us all; then there would be no ill feeling.  But I suppose Cis and Charlie will get some, even if no will is found?”

“I have no idea.  If poor Fred had lived, I suppose he would take a share.”

They sat silent for some minutes.  Then Kate rose and very deliberately shut up her mother’s writing-book, collected her papers and rough note-book, and locked them away in her drawer.  “Now, dearest mother,” she said, “promise me not to open that drawer for ten days at least, unless a very strong inspiration comes to you.  By that time we may know something certain about the will, and at any rate you will have had change of occupation.  Then put on your bonnet and let us go to see our friend Mrs. Wray.  Perhaps she may let us see her husband’s studio, and if he is there we are sure to have some interesting talk.  We both sorely need a change of ideas.”