"I have a friend," she said, suddenly rousing herself to make one effort suitable to the occasion, "whose only little girl died last year. They thought her heart would break, but it did not. She--in a marvellous way she bore it. Never once did she seem to me to sorrow--painfully. The child, for long and long after she was dead, seemed with her, she told me." She leant forward in her chair; her voice, which was a rather harsh-speaking voice, grew low and earnest. Was it possible that she--she, Flora Macmichel--had joined the company of the preachers! "Don't you think that alleviations undreamed of are always sent?" she asked, smarting tears in her eyes, her voice breaking. "Perhaps I ought not to say it," the other woman said, "it is my want of faith, of which I should be ashamed; but it seems to me that nothing--nothing--in this world, of course--could atone." A bell clashed sharply. By leaning back slightly in her chair, Mrs Jones could get, it seemed, a side view of the door. "Dear me! It is the boy from the telegraph office," she said. "I never see him without the dreadful fear that something may be amiss. Isn't it old-fashioned of me?" The flush which told of disease had deepened on her cheeks; she laid a hand upon her chest as she arose. "If you will excuse me for half a moment----?" But Mrs Macmichel had sprung to her feet and was at the door before the other. "Let me!" she said hurriedly. "I--I have my hat on. You might take cold----" "Excuse me!" Mrs Jones cried. "You really must allow me!" said Mrs Macmichel. There was quite a scuffle at the door as to which should go out first. It was the younger and stronger woman who dashed across the hall and snatched the telegram from the boy upon the steps. She came back, crushing the orange envelope, unopened, in her hand. Full well she knew its contents. The authorities had not waited for the father's inquiry, but had wired the news. "It was--was for me," she said, gasping out the intelligence. The dark eyes of the elder woman questioned her sharply. "How strange--how very strange it should have been sent on here!" "My husband knew I was coming to make--a long call. He sent it on." Mrs Jones sat down again before her tea-tray, and in the speaking eyes was a dawning of suspicion--"I hope nothing is the matter?" she said. "You will read your telegram, Mrs Macmichel?" Mrs Macmichel thrust the envelope into the pocket of her coat, and kept her hand upon it there. "It is from my dressmaker; she is always bothering," she said. "But are you sure, as you have not read it?" "Quite sure. I always know when they come from her." The hand which seized upon her cup again was shaking. The slice of bread-and-butter was sodden with the tea which had been spilt on it as she had put it so hurriedly down. "What were we talking of?" she asked. "I--it was so interesting. Please go on."