“Mrs. Burrows was cremated on Wednesday.  It seems she preferred it to burial.”  Having said this, he turned to stare from the window again.

Sarah Judd stood silent a moment.  Then she said with a sigh of relief: 

“It’s a queer world, isn’t it, Mr. Conant?  And this death isn’t altogether a calamity.”

“Eh?  Why not?” whirling round to face her.

“Because,” said Sarah, “it will enable Mr. Hathaway to face the world again—­a free man.”

Peter Conant was so startled that he stood motionless, forgetting his locket but not forgetting to stare.  Sarah, with her hands full of forks and spoons, began placing the silver in orderly array upon the table.  She paid no heed to the lawyer, who gradually recovered his poise and watched her with newly awakened interest.  Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, and then decided not to.  He was bewildered, perplexed, suspicious.  In thought he began to review the manner of Sarah’s coming to them, and her subsequent actions.  She seemed a capable servant.  Mrs. Conant had never complained of her.  Yet—­what did she know of Hathaway?

Mary Louise did not appear at dinner.  She begged to be left alone in her room.  Sarah took her some toast and tea, with honest sympathy in her eyes, but the sorrowing girl shook her head and would not taste the food.  Later, however, in the evening, she entered the living room where the others sat in depressed silence and said: 

“Please, Mr. Conant, tell me all you know about—­mother.”

“It is very little, my dear” replied the lawyer in a kindly tone.”  This morning I received a message from your grandfather which said:  ’Poor Beatrice passed away on Monday and at her request her body was cremated to-day.  Be very gentle in breaking the sad news to Mary Louise.’  That was all, my child, and I came here as quickly as I could.  In a day or so we shall have further details, I feel sure.  I am going back to town in the morning and will send you any information I receive.”

“Thank you,” said the girl, and was quietly leaving the room when Irene called to her.

“Mary Louise!”

“Yes?” half turning.

“Will you come with me to my room?”

“Now?”

“Yes.  You know I cannot go up the stairs.  And—­I lost my own dear mother not long ago, you will remember.”

Tears started to the girl’s eyes, but she waited until Irene wheeled her chair beside her and then the two went through the den to Irene’s room.

Mrs. Conant nodded to Peter approvingly.

“Irene will comfort her,” she said, “and in a way far better than I might do.  It is all very dreadful and very sad, Peter, but the poor child has never enjoyed much of her mother’s society and when the first bitter grief is passed I think she will recover something of her usual cheerfulness.”

“H-m,” returned the lawyer; “it seems a hard thing to say, Hannah, but this demise may prove a blessing in disguise and be best for the child’s future happiness.  In any event, I’m sure it will relieve the strain many of us have been under for the past ten years.”