“Mona, my dear child, do not talk like that,” said the man, looking deeply distressed, “for, somehow, I feel guilty, as if I were, in a measure, responsible for this fresh calamity that has befallen you; and yet I could not help it.  If I had only known that Mr. Dinsmore’s wife was living, I could have made the will all right.  Ah! no, no! what am I saying?  Even if I had, he could not have signed it, for his strength failed.  Still, I know that he wanted you to have all, and it is not right that this woman should get it from you.”

“Must I go away from my home and from all these lovely things of which Uncle Walter was so fond?” Mona asked, looking about the beautiful room with inexpressible longing written on her young face.  “Will she claim his books and pictures, and even this dear chair, in which I loved to see him sit, and which seems almost like a part of himself, now that he is gone?” and unable to bear the thought of parting from these familiar objects, around which clustered such precious associations, the stricken girl bowed her face upon the arm of Mr. Dinsmore’s chair, and burst into a passion of tears.

“My dear girl, don’t!” pleaded the tender-hearted lawyer, as he gently stroked her rich, brown hair with one hand, and wiped the tears from his own eyes with the other, “it almost breaks my heart to think of it, and I promise that you shall at least have some of the treasures which you prize so much.  You shall not want for a home, either—­you shall come to me.  Mr. Dinsmore was my dear and valued friend, and for his sake, as well as your own, you shall never want for enough to supply your needs.  I have not great wealth, but what I have I will share with you.”

Mona now lifted her head, and wiped her tears, while she struggled bravely to regain her self-possession.

“You are very kind, Mr. Graves,” she said, when she could speak, and with a newly acquired dignity, at which her companion marveled, “and I am very grateful to you for your sympathy and generosity; but I could never become an object of charity to any one.  If it is so ordered, that I am to be bereft of the home and fortune which Uncle Walter wished me to have, I must submit to it, and there will doubtless be some way provided to enable me to live independently.  It is all so new and so—­so almost incomprehensible, that, for the moment, I was overcome.  I will try not to be so weak and childish again; and now,” pausing for a deep breath, “will you please explain to me just my position?  When must I go, and—­and can I take away the things that Uncle Walter has given to me from time to time?  The pictures in my own rooms were given to me on certain birthdays and holidays; the piano he gave me new last Christmas, and I have a watch and some valuable jewelry.”

“Of course, you may keep all such things,” Mr. Graves answered with emotion, for it was inexpressively sad to have this girl so shorn of all that had made life beautiful to her so many years, “unless,” he added, “it be the piano, and that you may have if there is any way to prove that it was given to you.  You are to have a week in which to make your arrangements, and at the end of that time everything will pass into the possession of madame.”