"Not a bit--all frozen up--ah! yes! Lynn Holmes is dead." "What! not the artist! when did it happen? I saw him on the street a week ago--another duel?" "No--lung fever. He died night before last, after forty-eight hours' illness." "Shocking!" "Ellen! you are white as a sheet!" was Mrs. Morris' greeting. "My dear child--are you sick?" "No ma'am--only cold--oh! _so_ cold!" "Come to the fire." "I think I will lie down awhile--I am chilled to the heart!" The servant, who carried her breakfast, reported her asleep, and the careful mother would not let them waken her. Later in the day, she took a cup of hot coffee up to her. She was motionless; her head covered. "My daughter!" said Mrs. Morris, softly, drawing down the coverlet. She looked at her, but did not speak. "How do you feel now?" "I don't know, ma'am." "You are not quite awake yet, I believe," said her mother, smiling. "Here, drink this--it will do you good." She took it. "By the way, my dear," continued Mrs Morris, busying herself with the folds of a curtain, which did not hang to suit her. "I have melancholy news for you. Our friend, Mr. Holmes, died suddenly, night before last. I never was more astonished and grieved in my life. He was such a handsome, promising young man, and so attached to us! I said directly how sorry you would be to hear it. You were so much together--where are the pins? oh! here they are! His disease was a rapid inflammation of the lungs. The funeral will take place at the church this afternoon;--some of us must go, if the weather _is_ bad. Do you think you will be well enough?" "Yes ma'am." "Well--I hope so; and now I will go down and keep the children still, so that you can sleep."