Arthur walked with him-towards the library, where his aunt Lydia was expecting him. 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.
