Her mouth quivered.  “Stand up to it!” . . .  The voice—­Patrick’s voice—­seemed to sound in her ear . . .  “Stand up to it, little old pal!”

She bit back the sob that climbed to her throat, and stood silently facing the enemy, as it were.

This was the end, then, of one chapter of her existence—­the chapter of sheltered, happy life at Barrow, and in these quiet moments, alone for the last time with Patrick Lovell, Sara tried to gather strength and courage from her memories of his cheery optimism to face gamely whatever might befall her in the big world into which she must so soon adventure.

CHAPTER III

A SHEAF OF MEMORIES

It was over.  The master of Barrow had been carried shoulder-high to the great vault where countless Lovells slept their last sleep, the blinds had been drawn up, letting in the wintry sunlight once again, and the mourners had gone their ways.  Only the new owner of the Court still lingered, and even he would be leaving very soon now.

Sara, her slim, boyish build, with its long line of slender hip, accentuated by the clinging black of her gown, moved listlessly across the hall to where Major Durward was standing smoking by the big open fire, waiting for the car which was to take him to the station.

He made as though to throw his cigarette away at her approach, but she gestured a hasty negative.

“No, don’t,” she said.  “I like it.  It seems to make things a little more natural.  Uncle Pat”—­with a wan smile—­“was always smoking.”

Her sombre eyes were shadowed and sad, and there was a pinched, drawn look about her nostrils.  Major Durward regarded her with a concerned expression on his kindly face.

“You will miss him badly,” he said.

“Yes, I shall miss him,”—­simply.  She returned his glance frankly.  “You are very like him, you know,” she added suddenly.

It was true.  The big, soldierly man beside her, with his jolly blue eyes, grey hair, and short-clipped military moustache, bore a striking resemblance to the Patrick Lovell of ten years ago, before ill-health had laid its finger upon him, and during the difficult days that succeeded her uncle’s death Sara had unconsciously found a strange kind of comfort in the likeness.  She had dreaded inexpressibly the advent of the future owner of Barrow, but, when he had arrived, his resemblance to his dead cousin, and a certain similarity of gesture and of voice, common enough in families, had at once established a sense of kinship, which had deepened with her recognition of Durward’s genuine kind-heartedness and solicitude for her comfort.

He had immediately assumed control of affairs, taking all the inevitable detail of arrangement off her shoulders, yet deferring to her as though she were still just as much mistress of the Court as she had been before her uncle’s death.  In every way he had tried to ease and smooth matters for her, and she felt proportionately grateful to him.