"She will be better than no one, and you must promise me to return, Adrienne. You said you would stay with me till Guy returned." "Oh, Aunt Cecily, not if he stayed away indefinitely. But we won't talk about that now. I must go immediately to Bertha Preston. I only hope she'll come." Off she rode as quickly as she could to Le Sourge, and fortunately found Bertha at home. She was astonished and rather disconcerted at Adrienne's request. "I hardly know your aunt." "Oh, do come; I shall be so relieved. She likes you and will soon forget me when she sits up and talks to you of the past. I know it's asking a lot, but you did say to me the other day that you were getting tired of your cottage life, and you would be doing us such a great kindness. I am bound to go. I must. And Aunt Cecily really is not fitted to live alone. She depends so much on having someone to talk to, and someone who can do little things for her." "Oh, I'll come, if your aunt will put up with an old blasé woman instead of a bright young girl. We'll try and get on together till you come back. Don't you worry. Does she expect me this evening?" "Is it too soon? To-morrow will do. I don't leave till four this afternoon." "Then I'll come to-morrow in time for déjeuner tell her; and if we fall out, I can but return to my cottage. I'll do my best to keep her happy. But she's a difficult subject. I hope you'll find your uncle through the worst when you get home." "I'm in such a bustle that I can hardly think," said poor Adrienne. "Good-bye and a thousand thanks. Write to me, won't you? I feel responsible for Aunt Cecily till Cousin Guy comes back." Then she galloped home. She certainly did not have much time to think, till the train was taking her towards Paris. She could hardly realize that her French life was receding behind her. And what had at one time been her greatest desire now seemed to her a trouble rather than a joy. She was really anxious about her uncles, and that anxiety eclipsed all else. She arrived home late the next day. The car was outside the station and in it, to her surprise, was the Admiral. He looked ill, and as he kissed her affectionately, he said: "I felt bound to meet you myself, my dear; I could not have anyone else break it to you." "What!" cried Adrienne with blanched cheeks. "Is it—is it serious?" "He has gone, dear child." The shock was great. Adrienne buried her face in her hands. "I never imagined—I cannot believe it," she sobbed. "Tell me all." "He was really taken ill in Norway. We hurried home, but the weather was bad and we got delayed. There was a doctor on board, but you know how your uncle hated doctors. He would have none of him. We stopped in London, he was got into a Nursing Home and that very night they operated, but it was too late, and he sank. I was with him and he sent his love to you. I could not tell you in the wire. I brought him home yesterday. The funeral is to-morrow."