Waring came into breakfast with the letters in his hand. “I have heard from your mother,” he said, looking straight before him, without turning to the right or the left. Frances tried to appropriate this to herself, to make some reply, but her voice died in her throat; and Constance, with the easiest certainty that it was she who was addressed, answered before she could recover herself. “Yes--so have I. Mamma is rather fond of writing letters. She says she has told you what she wishes, and then she tells me to tell you. I don’t suppose that is of much use?” “Of no use at all,” said he. “She is pretty explicit. She says----” Constance leant over the table a little, holding up her finger. “Don’t you think, papa,” she said, “as it is business, that it would be better not to enter upon it just now? Wait till we have had our breakfast.” He looked at her with an air of surprise. “I don’t see----” he said; then, after a moment’s reflection, “Perhaps you are right, after all. It may be better not to say anything just now.” Frances had recovered her voice. She looked from one to another as they spoke, with a cruel consciousness that it was she, not they, who was most concerned. At this point she burst forth with feelings not to be controlled. “If it is on my account, I would rather know at once what it is,” she cried. And then she had to bear the looks of both--her father’s astonished half-remorseful gaze, and the eyes of Constance, which conveyed a warning. Why should Constance, who had told her of the danger, warn her now not to betray her knowledge of it? Frances had got beyond her own control. She was vexed by the looks which were fixed upon her, and by the supposed consideration for her comfort which lay in their delay. “I know,” she said quickly, “that it is something about me. If you think I care for breakfast, you are mistaken; but I think I have a right to know what it is, if it is about me. O papa, I don’t mean to be--disagreeable,” she cried suddenly, sinking into her own natural tone as she caught his eye. “That is not very much like you, certainly,” he said, in a confused voice. “Evil communications,” said Constance, with a laugh. “I have done her harm already.” Frances felt that her sister’s voice threw a new irritation into her mood. “I am not like myself,” she said, “because I know something is going to happen to me, and I don’t know what it is. Papa, I don’t want to be selfish, but let me know, please, only let me know what it is.” “It is only that mamma has sent for you,” said Constance, lightly; “that is all. It is nothing so very dreadful. Now do let us have our breakfast in peace.” “Is that true, papa?” Frances said. “My dear little girl--I had meant to explain it all--to tell you--and I have been so silly as to put off. Your sister does not understand how we have lived together, Frances, you and I.” “Am I to go, papa?”