At such horrible moments women always swoon--if we are to believe the dramatists. I doubt if there is one grain of truth in this. Women seldom swoon at all, unless their bodies are unhealthy, or weakened by the reaction that follows so terrible a shock as this. At all events, Phoebe, at first, was strong and wild as a lion, and went to and fro outside the house, unconscious of her body's motion, frenzied with agony, and but one word on her lips, “He is dead!--he is dead!” Dick followed her, crying like a child, but master of himself; he got his people about her, and half carried her in again; then shut the door in all their faces. He got the poor creature to sit down, and she began to rock and moan, with her apron over her head, and her brown hair loose about her. “Why should he be dead?” said Dick. “Don't give a man up like that, Phoebe. Doctor, tell us more about it. Oh, man, how could you let him out of your sight? You knew how fond the poor creature was of him.” “But that was it, Mr. Dale,” said Staines. “I knew his wife must pine for him; and we had found six large diamonds, and a handful of small ones; but the market was glutted; and to get a better price, he wanted to go straight to Cape Town. But I said, 'No; go and show them to your wife, and see whether she will go to Cape Town.'” Phoebe began to listen, as was evident by her moaning more softly. “Might he not have gone straight to Cape Town?” Staines hazarded this timidly. “Why should he do that, sir? Dale's Kloof is on the road.” “Only on one road. Mr. Dale, he was well armed, with rifle and revolver; and I cautioned him not to show a diamond on the road. Who would molest him? Diamonds don't show, like gold. Who was to know he had three thousand pounds hidden under his armpits, and in two barrels of his revolver?” “Three thousand pounds!” cried Dale. “You trusted HIM with three thousand pounds?” “Certainly. They were worth about three thousand pounds in Cape Town, and half as much again in”-- Phoebe started up in a moment. “Thank God!” she cried. “There's hope for me. Oh, Dick, he is not dead: HE HAS ONLY DESERTED ME.” And with these strange and pitiable words, she fell to sobbing as if her great heart would burst at last. CHAPTER XXIV. There came a reaction, and Phoebe was prostrated with grief and alarm. Her brother never doubted now that Reginald had run to Cape Town for a lark. But Phoebe, though she thought so too, could not be sure; and so the double agony of bereavement and desertion tortured her by turns, and almost together. For the first time these many years, she was so crushed she could not go about her business, but lay on a little sofa in her own room, and had the blinds down, for her head ached so she could not bear the light. She conceived a bitter resentment against Staines; and told Dick never to let him into her sight, if he did not want to be her death.