other factor—the unexpected arrival of a widowed sister-in-law with her daughter

from Canada. Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd, widow of Ackroyd’s ne’er-do-well younger

brother, has taken up her residence at Fernly Park, and has succeeded, according

to Caroline, in putting Miss Russell in her proper place.

 

I don’t know exactly what a “proper place” constitutes—it sounds chilly and

unpleasant—but I know that Miss Russell goes about with pinched lips, and what I

can only describe as an acid smile, and that she professes the utmost sympathy

for “poor Mrs. Ackroyd—dependent on the charity of her husband’s brother. The

bread of charity is so bitter, is it not? _I_ should be quite miserable if I did

not work for my living.”

 

I don’t know what Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd thought of the Ferrars affair when it came

on the tapis. It was clearly to her advantage that Ackroyd should remain

unmarried. She was always very charming—not to say gushing—to Mrs. Ferrars when

they met. Caroline says that proves less than nothing.

 

Such have been our preoccupations in King’s Abbot for the last few years. We

have discussed Ackroyd and his affairs from every standpoint.

 

Mrs. Ferrars has fitted into her place in the scheme.

 

Now there has been a rearrangement of the kaleidoscope. From a mild discussion

of probable wedding presents, we have been jerked into the midst of tragedy.