There was a band of crape on Arthur's hat, and his manner was like one trying to be sorry, while conscious of a great inward feeling of resignation, if not content.

The rich uncle was dead.

He had died suddenly in Paris, where he had gone on business, and the whole of his vast fortune was left to his nephew Arthur--not a farthing to Frank, not even the mention of his name in the will: and when Dorothy heard it she put her white apron over her face, and cried as if her heart would break.

They were so poor, she and Frank, and they wanted so many things, and the man who could have helped them was dead and had left them nothing.

It was hard, and she might not have made the young heir very welcome if he had not ensured her that he should do something for her husband.