“Then, as a matter of course,” she said, “you never heard of me.”

“I am at a loss to know whether I should address you as kinswoman or not,” was my confused reply.

“It would take a bench of lawyers to decide,” she said.  “My mother was a favorite cousin of Sir Barnard.  I think, but I am not sure, that once upon a time he was fond of her himself.  My mother married a French gentleman, Monsieur d’Aubergne, and at her death Sir Barnard kindly offered me a home here, since I had no other.”

“Is your father living?” I asked.

“Alas! no; he died when I was a child.  There had been some quarrel between my mother and Sir Barnard; perhaps he never forgave her for marrying a Frenchman.  During her lifetime he never wrote to her or took the least notice of me.”

“And then offered you his home?”

“Then he adopted me,” she said, looking earnestly at me; “treated me in every way as his own child.  I have been with him ever since.  I have no home except here at Crown Anstey, and I had not a sou in the world except what he gave me.  Ah!  I miss him so sorely.”

A cloud came over her beautiful face, and her lips quivered.  I sat down in sore perplexity with my inheritance.  I had not certainly expected this.  What was I to say to her—­this beautiful and radiant woman, who seemed thrown upon my hands like a child?  There was silence between us for some time, then she said, suddenly: 

“How sad this is about poor Sir Barnard and his son, is it not?  I thought at first that I should never recover from the shock.  Miles was a very handsome man; so clever and full of spirits.  I am told,” she continued, “that the bodies are to be brought home to-night.  Is it true, Sir Edgar?”

“I believe so.  I am here to receive them and to preside at the funeral.”

Her face grew a shade paler.

“I am so frightened and nervous at everything connected with death,” she said.

“Your best plan will be to remain in your own room until it is all over,” I suggested, and she seemed very grateful for the thought.

“Will you take some tea?” she asked, suddenly.  “I always made tea for Sir Barnard and Miles.”

Then she drew back shrinkingly, her face crimson.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.  “I forgot; I have no right to take the same place now.”

What could I do but hasten to implore her not to yield to such an idea, to consider Crown Anstey her home, as it had been—­at least for a time?

“You make me so happy!” she said; “but how can I—­how can I stay here?  I find it awkward to explain myself—­how can I remain here with you?”

I hastened eagerly to explain that I had a sister, an invalid sister, and that I should be delighted if she would take an interest in her; and it pleased me to think how happy Clare would be.

“Then you wish me to remain here as a companion to your sister?” she said, slowly; and there was evidently some little disappointment in her face.