she made her weekly payments without a word of dissatisfaction.  She had a few eccentricities of behaviour which the Denyers found it difficult to reconcile with the refinement of her ordinary conduct.  Once or twice, when the servant went into her sitting-room the first thing in the morning, she was surprised to find Mrs. Travis lying asleep on the couch, evidently just as she had come home the previous night, except that her bonnet was removed.  It had happened, too, that when some one came and knocked at her door during the day, she vouchsafed no answer, and yet made the sound of moving about, as if to show that she did not choose to be disturbed, for whatever reason.

The household went its regular way.  Mrs. Denyer sat in her wonted idle dignity, or scolded the hard-driven maid-of-all-work, or quarrelled fiercely with Barbara.  Barbara was sullen, insolent, rebellious against fate, by turns.  Up in the still room lay poor Madeline, seldom visited by either of the two save when it was necessary.  All knew that the position of things had no security; before long there must come a crisis worse than any the family had yet experienced.  Unless, indeed, that one hope which remained to them could be realized.

One afternoon at the end of July, mother and daughter were sitting over their tea, lamenting the necessity which kept them in London when the eternal fitness of things demanded that they should be preparing for travel.  They heard a vehicle draw up before the house, and Barbara, making cautious espial from the windows, exclaimed that it was Mr. Musselwhite.

“He has a lot of flowers, as usual,” she added, scornfully, watching him as he paid the cabman.  “Go into the back room, mamma.  Let’s say you’re not at home to-day.  Send for the teapot, and get some more tea made.”

There came a high-bred knock at the front door, and Mrs. Denyer disappeared.

Mr. Musselwhite entered with a look and bearing much graver than usual.  He made the proper remarks, and gave Barbara the flowers for her sister then seated himself, and stroked his moustache.

“Miss Denyer,” he began, when Barbara waited wearily for the familiar topic, “my brother, Sir Grant, died a week ago.”

“I am very grieved to hear it,” she replied, mechanically, at once absorbed in speculation as to whether this would make any change that concerned her.

“It was a long and painful illness, and recovery was known to be impossible.  Yet I too cannot help grieving.  As you know, we had not seen much of each other for some years, but I had the very highest opinion of Sir Grant, and it always gave me pleasure to think of him as the head of our family.  He was a man of great abilities, and a kind man.”

“I am sure he was—­from what you have told me of him.”

“My nephew succeeds to the title and the estate; he is now Sir Roland Musselwhite.  I have mentioned him in our conversations.  He is about thirty-four, a very able man, and very kind, very generous.”