rather she did not dream of resisting—­imposed silence on her.  To what had this silence committed her?  To nothing.  When Mr. Newton came and examined the bureau he would no doubt open the drawer of the writing-table also.  She had locked it, and put the key in the little basket where the keys of her scantily supplied store closet and of the cellaret lay:  there it stood on the round table near the window, with her ink-bottle and blotting-book.  She sat up and looked at it fixedly.  That little key was all that intervened between her and rest, freedom, enjoyment.  The more she recalled her uncle’s words and manner on the day he had dictated his first note to Mr. Newton, the more convinced she felt that he had intended to provide for her, and now his intentions would be frustrated, and the will the old man wished to suppress would be the instrument by which his possessions would be distributed.

It was too bad.  She did not know how closely the hope of her mother’s emancipation from the long hard struggle with poverty and its attendant evils by means of Uncle Liddell’s possible bequest had twined itself round her heart.  Now she could not give it up.  It seemed to her that her mental grasp refused to relax.

She rose and began to make some little arrangement for her mother’s comfort, and presently the servant came to ask if she would take some tea.

“I’m sure, miss, you must be faint for want of food, and we are just going to have some—­the woman and me.”

“What woman?”

“A very respectable person as Dr. Bilham sent in to—­to attend to the poor old gentleman, miss.”

“Ah! thank you.  I could not take anything now.  I expect my mother soon; then I shall be glad of some tea.

“Well, miss, you’ll ring if you want me.  And dear me! you ought to have a bit of fire.  I’ll light one up in a minnit.”

“Not till you have had your tea.  I am not cold.”

“You look awful bad, miss!” With this comforting assurance Mrs. Knapp departed, leaving the door partially open.

A muffled sound, as if people were moving softly and cautiously, was wafted to Katherine as she sat and listened:  then a door closed gently; voices murmuring in a subdued tone reached her ear, retreating as if the speakers had gone downstairs.

Katherine went to the window.  It was a wretchedly dark, drizzling afternoon—­cold too, with gusts of wind.  She hoped Mr. Newton would make her mother take a cab.  It was no weather for her to stand about waiting for an omnibus.  Would the time ever come when they need not think of pennies?

Suddenly she turned, took a key from her basket, and walked composedly downstairs, unlocked the drawer of the writing-table, and took out her uncle’s last will and testament.  Then she closed the drawer, leaving the key in the lock, as it had always been, and returned to her room.

Having fastened her door, she applied herself to read the document.  It was short and simple, and with the exception of a small legacy to Mr. Newton, left all the testator possessed to a man whose name was utterly unknown to her.  Mr. Newton was the sole executor, and the will was dated nearly seven years back.