Mildmay made no reply; he was not disposed to criticise Cicely, or to discuss her with Mr. Ascott. The rectory was all open again, the shutters put back, the blinds drawn up. In the faded old drawing-room, where the gentlemen were put by Betsy to wait for Miss St. John, everything looked as usual, except a scrap of paper here and there marked Lot----. This had been done by the auctioneer, before Mr. St. John's death. Some of these papers Betsy, much outraged by the sight of them, had furtively rubbed off with her duster, but some remained. Mr. Mildmay had something of Betsy's feeling. He, too, when Mr. Ascott was not looking, tore off the label from the big old chiffonnier which Mab had called a tomb, and threw it behind the ornaments in the grate--a foolish sort of demonstration, no doubt, of being on the side of the forlorn family against fate, but yet comprehensible. He did not venture upon any such freaks when Cicely came in, in the extreme blackness of her mourning. She was very pale, keeping the tears out of her eyes with a great effort, and strung to the highest tension of self-control. She met Mr. Ascott with composure; but when she turned to Mildmay, broke down for the moment. "Thanks!" she said, with a momentary pressure of his hand, and an attempt at a smile in the eyes which filled at sight of him, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she could say any more.
"Mrs. Ascott charged me with a great many messages," said that lady's husband. "I am sure you know, Cicely, nobody has felt for you more; but she is very sensitive--that you know too--and I am obliged to interpose my authority to keep her from agitating herself. She talks of coming to-morrow. When do you go?"
"On Saturday," said Cicely, having just recovered the power of speech, which, to tell the truth, Mildmay did not quite feel himself to have done.
"On Saturday--so soon! and you are going----"
"With my aunt, Miss Maydew," said Cicely, "to London for a time--as short a time as possible--till I get something to do."
"Ah--h!" said Mr. Ascott, shaking his head. "You know how sincerely sorry we all are; and, my dear Cicely, you will excuse an old friend asking, is there no little provision--nothing to fall back upon--for the poor little children, at least?"