Aunt Lydia was the only person in the
house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughter
was unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeral
arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women,
she mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the more
because she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in
other hearts.
But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done
in his life before.
"Dear Aunt," he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR loss is
the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up to
you all the rest of your life."
"It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur," poor Miss Lydia began,
pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen with
impatient patience. When a pause came, he said:
"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my own
room, and then I shall come and give full attention to everything."
"My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?" he said to the butler,
who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall.
"Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the
writing-table in your dressing-room.
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