Mrs Tresham rushes from the little room and slams the door behind her. But she does not go to bed. She takes a seat amongst her sleeping children, and, resting her head upon her hands, weeps for the past which is slumbering like them, although she thinks it dead. It is just nine o’clock, and as the hour strikes from a neighbouring church tower, she sees the postman coming up the street. He enters the _parterre_ of chickweed and dandelions, and gives a double knock at the front door, whilst Mrs Tresham, sitting at her bedroom window, wonders vaguely who the letter can be from. But presently she hears a shout from below—a mingled shout of surprise and horror and excitement, and startled and curious she runs downstairs to learn the cause. Her husband’s handsome face—flushed and animated—turns towards her as she opens the door. ‘What is the matter?’ she exclaims hurriedly. ‘_What is the matter?_’ he repeats. ‘What is _not_ the matter? My God! can it possibly be true?’ He has leapt from his seat and passed his fingers through his hair, which is all on end. His eyes flame like living fire; his whole frame is trembling; she thinks for the moment that he has gone mad. ‘Roland, you are frightening me terribly! Have you had bad news?’ ‘Bad news! No. Glorious news! At least I suppose I ought not to call it so, because he’s my brother, but he has never been like a brother to me. Juliet! Only fancy—Ralph is dead, killed by a fall down the mountain side.’ ‘Oh! Poor Sir Ralph! How terrible! But perhaps it is not true.’ ‘It _is_ true. This letter is from Lady Tresham’s nephew, Handley Harcourt, who was with Ralph at the time of his death. And they are bringing the body to England. And—and—can’t you understand? _I_ am Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court—with ten thousand a-year to keep it up on, and—Oh, my God!—my God! I believe the news will drive me mad.’ He casts himself face downwards on the rickety couch in the corner of the room, and sobs as if, without that relief, his heart would burst with joy. Meanwhile his wife stands motionless, almost unable to comprehend the sudden change in their condition, until her husband starts up again, exclaiming,— ‘What a child I am. But it only proves what I have suffered. To be free, once and for ever, of all this struggling and starvation—to see my poor children placed in the position to which they were born—It is too great a change to be believed in, all at once. My boys shall enter the army and navy—and my girls have every advantage my wealth can procure them. Oh, it is too much! It has all happened so suddenly. I feel as if I should die before I come into it. Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court! Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court! Merciful heavens, am I awake or in a dream?’