"I should feel lonely anywhere," she said. "More lonely with people I

don't know, probably, than I should feel here, with Jessie and

Jason--and--and the dogs."

"Well, well, we can't discuss the question now, and will endeavour to

act for the best, my dear," said the old man, still intent upon his

glasses. "I hear the carriage. I will bring Mr. John in." He returned

in a minute or two, accompanied by a tall and gaunt individual, who, in

his black clothes and white necktie, looked a cross between a superior

undertaker and a Methodist preacher. His features were strongly marked,

and the expression of his countenance was both severe and melancholy,

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and, judging by his expression and his voice, which was harsh and

lachrymose, his particular form of religion did not appear to afford

him either amusement or consolation.

"This is your cousin, Mr. John Heron," said poor Mr. Wordley, who was

evidently suffering from the effects of his few minutes' conversation

with that gentleman.

Mr. John Heron surveyed the slight figure and white face with its sad,

star-like eyes--surveyed it with a grim kind of severity, which was

probably intended for sympathy, and extending a cold, damp hand, which

resembled an extremely bony shoulder of mutton, said, in a rasping,

melancholy voice: "How do you do, Ida? I trust you are bearing your burden as becomes a

Christian. We are born to sorrow. The train was three-quarters of an

hour late."

"I am sorry," said Ida in her low voice, leaving him to judge whether

she expressed regret for our birthright of misery or the lateness of

the train. "Will you have some lunch--some wine?" she asked, a dull,

vague wonder rising in her mind that this grim, middle-class man should

be of kith and kin with her dead father.

"Thank you; no. I had an abernethy biscuit at the station." He drew

back from, and waved away, the tray of wine which Jason at this moment

brought in. "I never touch wine. I, and all mine, are total abstainers.

Those who fly to the wine-cup in moments of tribulation and grief rely

on a broken reed which shall pierce their hand. I trust you do not

drink, Cousin Ida?"

"No--yes; sometimes; not much," she replied, vaguely, and regarding him

with a dull wonder; for she had never seen this kind of man before.

Mr. Wordley poured out a glass of wine, and, in silent indignation,

handed it to her; and, unconscious of the heavy scowl with which Mr.

John Heron regarded her, she put her lips to it.




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