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 She dropped the letter, and hid her face in her hands.

funeral took place the next morning, and on the return from the cemetery Dick told his mother that he must go and look over things at Darrow's office. He had heard the day before from his friend's aunt, a helpless person to whom telegraphy was difficult and travel inconceivable, and who, in eight pages of unpunctuated eloquence, made over to Dick what she called the melancholy privilege of winding up her nephew's affairs.

Mrs. Peyton looked anxiously at her son. &quot;Is there no one who can do this for you? He must have had a clerk or some one who knows about his work.&quot;

Dick shook his head. &quot;Not lately. He has n't had much to do this winter, and