“You can have all the help I can give, Lord Lorriston. What is it?” “I was vain enough and foolish enough to boast two years ago that I hardly knew trouble even by name. I humbly beg pardon of Heaven for my boast.” He laid a packet of papers on the table. “The mail came in yesterday. I read the announcement of it in the papers; it has brought news that will most surely kill my daughter.” Kenelm’s heart gave one great bound. “He knows nothing yet,” he thought, and the idea was a reprieve to him. “Here are four letters,” continued the earl, “and they all announce the same sad intelligence--the death of Sir Ronald Alden.” It seemed to Kenelm that the world itself was coming to an end. “Lady Hermione a murderess--Sir Ronald dead.” He repeated the words slowly, almost bewildered. “Ronald dead! Oh, Lord Lorriston, can it be true?” “Read those, and judge for yourself.” Kenelm perused the letters. One was from the leader of the expedition, another from the doctor who had attended him, another from one of the friends who traveled with him, and they all contained the same horrible news. Sir Ronald, who for some time past had seemed much better in health and spirits, had been seized with a malignant fever and died suddenly, almost before there had been time to apply any remedies. As Kenelm read there came to him a vision of the bright-eyed, eager boy whom he had loved so dearly--friend and brother--great tears rose to his eyes, a sob to his lips. “I knew you would feel it,” said Lord Lorriston. “You loved him; so did I. Kenelm, how are we to break this to Lady Hermione? You see what Dr. Lawson says; the letters have been sent to me, but if the shock should prove fatal to Lady Alden, how shall we tell her?” “How shall I tell him?” thought Mr. Eyrle. “Heaven knows it was bad enough before; this only makes it worse.” “I want you to come out with me to Aldenmere, Kenelm,” continued the earl, “and help me to tell Lady Hermione--I--I fear it will kill her.” Mr. Eyrle looked compassionately at the man over whose head hung so terrible a secret. “I was there yesterday,” he said. “I will go with the utmost pleasure.” “Lady Lorriston would have been the most proper person to go, but unfortunately I told her quite suddenly, and she is ill with the shock. We all loved poor Ronald very dearly.” “I will go at once,” said Mr. Eyrle, shuddering as he thought of what else that loving, anxious mother might have to suffer. “Take some breakfast first,” said the earl, kindly. “You look very ill and tired yourself.” A cup of tea was brought in and he drank it hurriedly while his horse was saddled. He could not eat. Bread seemed as ashes between his lips; and then came to him a thought that, with this fever of unrest upon him--the fever of sorrow--he should not eat again. “We must ride quickly,” said the earl. “I should not like Hermione to hear the news from any one else. This is my first trouble, Kenelm, and, believe me, it is a heavy one.”