He had not been in Cornwall many days before he got a letter from Gentian. "My DEAR COUSIN THOROLD,— "Cousins can write to each other, can't they? And I want some safety valve—else I shall have spontaneous combustion. You told us to let you know if anything is wrong, and something is very wrong with me. I really don't think I can go on living here. Mrs. Wharnecliffe has shut up her house and gone to London. Sir Gilbert has gone off to Cannes. Miss Horatia is hunting and thinks and talks of nothing else. I wander up and down the road and look at your empty house. We hear some one has bought it—a single woman, they say, but she hasn't yet appeared. Your English winters are loathsome. Rain and mud, mud and rain—black skies, dead trees and hedges, and cold as the North Pole. How can you expect us to thrive without any sun? Miss Anne is in for the winter—at least, she is in unless we get a mild, sunny day. Instead of driving her out, I go over and read to her. That's the only nice time in my day. She gets books down from Mudie's and I live in them from three to four every afternoon. Do write and say what you're doing and where you are living, and if Miss Frances Muir has taken possession of you. And do, do find out a big piece of work—real work for me to do, with a very big W. "Women can do anything nowadays—but there seems nothing that just suits me. I'm getting almost tired of my car, and I want to do something big—and worth living for. I'm praying for something to be sent to me. I know you believe in prayer. I wish I could lead a Crusade, or something of that sort. I want to do something that will call out all my powers of soul as well as of my body. You see how the poor Bubble wants to soar! And Waddy is trying to fasten me down with string to the earth. String composed of Convention and Caution and Contentment, three C's that I snap and break in fury. "Write me a long letter and cheer me up. "YOUR POOR DISTRACTED BUBBLE." But before Thorold could reply to this, Gentian's prayers were answered in a way that she little expected. It was a cold grey afternoon in December. Gentian was returning in her car from the Mount where she had been reading to Miss Anne. As she neared the Vicarage she saw a car with lights standing outside the gate. Jumping out of her own car, she met the doctor who lived near coming down the path. "Dr. Wild, what is the matter?" she cried out. He looked at her gravely as he pulled on his gloves. "It's your friend—Miss Ward. I fortunately happened to be passing when your small maid called me in. I'll come back into the house with you. I think you'll have to have a nurse." "Oh," cried Gentian, "tell me quickly. Is it an accident?" "No—it's a seizure, and a bad one. Your maid found her unconscious, and she's unconscious still. Was she quite well when you saw her last?"