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'Dead?' repeated Diana.
'Yes.'
She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. 'And what
then?' she demanded, in a low voice.
'What then, Die?' he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of
feature. 'What then? Why- nothing. Read.'
He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed
it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her
brother. All three looked at each other, and all three smiled- a
dreary, pensive smile enough.
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'Amen! We can yet live,' said Diana at last.
'At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,'
remarked Mary.
'Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what
might have been; said Mr. Rivers, 'and contrasts it somewhat too
vividly with what is.'
He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out.
For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to me.
'Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,' she said, 'and
think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so
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