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sufficient silent communion.

‘‘Hardly a soul,’’ said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know,
some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people

here.’’ He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?’’ pursued the self-possessed young

lady. Only her name and address,’’ admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs
Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the

room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
‘‘Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,’’ said the child; ‘‘that would be since

your sister’s time.’’
‘‘Her tragedy?’’ asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed

out of place.
‘‘You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,’’ said

the niece, indicating a large French window’ that opened
on to a lawn.

‘‘It is quite warm for the time of the year,’’ said
Framton; “but has that window got anything to do

with the tragedy?’’
Out through that window, three years ago to a day,

her husband and her two young brothers went
off for their day’s shooting. They never came

back. In crossing the moor to their favourite
snipe– shooting ground they were all three

engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It
had been that dreadful wet summer, you

know and places that were safe in other
years gave way suddenly without

warning. Their bodies were never
recovered. That was the dreadful

part of it.’’ Here the child’s voice
lost its self-possessed note and

became falteringly human.
‘‘Poor aunt always thinks that

they will come back someday,

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