It surprised no one that Lee
Hannaford, informed through the lawyers of what had happened, simply
kept silence, leaving his wife's burial to the care of Dr. Derwent.
Three days of gloom went by; the funeral was over; Irene and her
cousin sat together in their mourning apparel, not simply possessed
by natural grief, but overcome with the nervous exhaustion which
results from our habits and customs in presence of death. Olga had
been miserably crying, but was now mute and still; Irene, pale, with
an expression of austere thoughtfulness, spoke of the subject they
both had in mind.
"There is no necessity to take any step at all--until you are
quite yourself again--until you really wish. This is your home; my
father would like you to stay."
"I couldn't live here after you are married," replied the other,
weakly, despondently.
Irene glanced at her, hung a moment on the edge of speech, then
spoke with a self-possession which made her seem many years older
than her cousin.
"I had better tell you now, that we may understand each other. I am
not going to be married."
To Olga's voiceless astonishment she answered with a pale smile.
Grave again, and gentle as she was firm, Irene continued.
"I am going to break my engagement. It has been a mistake. To-night
I shall write a letter to Mr. Jacks, saying that I cannot marry him;
when it has been sent, I shall tell my father.
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