“Jean Bernard!” Isabel repeated, curiously.  “Who was he?”

“Aunt Francesca’s husband,” answered Rose, with a little catch in her voice, “and my uncle.  He died in the War.”

“Oh,” said Isabel, unmoved.  “He was nice looking, wasn’t he?  Shall we take this to Aunt Francesca?”

“You forget that it isn’t ours to take,” Rose reminded her.  “And, by the way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband.  She cannot bear it.”

“All right,” assented the girl.  “What is this?”

From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it.  She took it to the light, rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words:  “Awarded to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at Gettysburg.”

“Put the things back,” Rose suggested, gently.  This tiny, secret drawer, Colonel Kent’s holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a man’s life.  The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife, the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement—­these were the hidden chambers of his heart.

Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer.  “Do you suppose those are diamonds?”

“No; only brilliants.”

“I thought so.  If they’d been diamonds, he would never have left them here.”

“On the contrary,” answered Rose, “I’m very sure he would.”  She had met Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he had spent at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him now, nevertheless.

They went on through the house, making notes of what was needed, while their footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the empty rooms.  “I’m glad there are no carpets, except on the stairs,” said Rose, “for rugs are much easier to clean.  It resolves itself simply into three C’s—­coal, curtains, and cleaning.  It won’t take long, if we can get enough people to work at it.”

It was almost dusk when they went downstairs, but the cold slanting sunbeams of a Winter afternoon came through the grimy windows and illumined the gloomy depths of the open fireplace in the hall.  Motes danced in the beam, and the house somehow seemed less despairing, less alone.  A portrait of Colonel Kent, in uniform, hung above the great mantel.  Rose smiled at it with comprehension, but the painted lips did not answer, nor the unseeing eyes swerve from their steady searching of Beyond.

“How was it?” asked Madame, when they reached home.  “Dirty and bad?”

“Rather soiled,” admitted Rose.

“And colder than Greenland,” Isabel continued, warming her hands at the open fire.

“We’ll soon change all that,” Madame said.  “I’ve ordered coal and engaged people to do the cleaning since you’ve been gone, and I have my eye upon two permanent retainers, provided their references are satisfactory.”