She rose when they entered, still clutching that packet tightly in her hands, as though from it she gained strength. A certain majesty and dignity came to her, the trembling limbs grew still, the lips calm. She looked from one to the other as they entered. Were they come to judge her? Had Kenelm Eyrle, despite his promise, been so thirsty for her life that he had hastened to denounce her? Had her father come already to curse her? She looked at him with fearless glance. Ah! there was no anger in that pale face of his--nothing but most tender pity and deepest grief. Kenelm Eyrle stood aside while the earl came to her and kissed the pallid face. “My dearest Hermione, you look very ill; what is the matter? Why have you not sent for us? You must have been ill for days.” “He does not know yet,” she thought, clutching the packet still more tightly in her white hands. “Sit down, my darling,” said Lord Lorriston. “You look so unfit to stand--so unfit, God help you, to bear more trouble or sorrow.” “Is there any more for me?” she asked. “I thought my cup was quite full. What is it, father? I do not think anything can hurt me now.” He did not understand her--he did not know she had any greater trouble than the absence of her husband. “I have sad news for you, my darling; you will require all your fortitude to enable you to bear it.” She smiled so faintly, so sadly, that his heart ached for her. “I have plenty of fortitude, papa. Do not fear for me--tell me what is wrong. I come of a race that knows how to endure.” “I have had letters from Alexandria this morning; and, Hermione, there is bad news from your husband.” “From Ronald?” she repeated; and he shrank from the woe in that fair face. “Is he ill?” she asked, slowly. “Can I go to him?” “No; you cannot join him, my darling. Kenelm, why do you not help me? You see that I cannot frame the words. You cannot join him; for the cares and troubles of this world are over for him. He will suffer and enjoy no more.” They saw a great calm steal over her. They had expected an outburst of passionate sorrow; but no word came from those pale lips. “You mean,” she said, “that he is dead.” The words sounded like a moan. “Yes,” repeated Lord Lorriston; “he died quite suddenly, and they wrote to tell me.” She did not faint or droop; she stood quite still, with this strange, dignified calm; no tears came to her eyes. “My husband is dead,” she said, slowly. “Oh, Ronald, let me come to you!” All faculty of emotion seemed frozen within her. “My dearest child,” said the earl, tenderly, “do not try to control your sorrow. Who so true as we? You can weep before us. You will die if you keep back your tears. I know how you loved poor Ronald.” She looked at him again with the same strange, sad smile. “I shall not weep,” she said. “It is through the mercy of God that my husband is dead.”