The clock struck the quarter after nine, and still Bella sat looking at the fire, with the breakfast table undisturbed. Even the urn had left off hissing. Beatrix was not generally so late. The two girls had been accustomed to sit down together at eight, for in Miss Scales’ moral code late hours were sinful, and a nine o’clock breakfast was the first stage in a downward career. Bella’s patience was exhausted. She went to Beatrix’s door and knocked. No answer. She knocked louder, and called, and still there was no answer. She was beginning to feel uneasy, when she saw the young woman who waited on Miss Harefield coming along the corridor. ‘Is your mistress up, Mary? Have you done her hair?’ ‘No, miss. I went at half-past seven, as usual, but she was sleeping so sound I didn’t like to wake her. I know she has had bad nights lately, and I thought the sleep would do her good. I’ve been on the listen for her bell ever since.’ ‘And she has not rung?’ ‘No, miss.’ Bella went in without another word. Beatrix was sleeping profoundly. ‘Don’t wake her, miss,’ said the maid, looking in at the door. ‘She’s been wanting sleep all along. Mr. Namby says so. Let her have her sleep out.’ ‘Very well,’ assented Bella. ‘I’ll go and have my breakfast. I’m quite exhausted with waiting.’ ‘So you must be, miss, and the urn is cold and the eggs too, I’ll lay. I’ll go and get things hotted up for you.’ Bella sat down to her lonely breakfast, presently, profound silence reigning in the house, and a dulness as of the grave. She began to think that, after all, wealth was not an unqualified blessing. Here was the heiress to one of the finest estates in Yorkshire, with innumerable acres in Lincolnshire to boot, leading an existence so joyless and monotonous that even one week of it was too much for Miss Scratchell. And yonder at the Park the wife of a millionaire was hastening her descent to the grave by vain cares and needless economies. The rich people did not seem, according to Bella’s small experience, to get value for their money. She was still sitting at breakfast when she was surprised by a visit from the butler. ‘Oh, if you please, ma’am,’ he began, with a serious air, ‘Mrs. Peters and I are rather anxious about Mr. Harefield. We really don’t feel to know what we ought to do--the circumstances are altogether out of the way. I don’t want to do more than my duty as a faithful servant--and I shouldn’t feel satisfied if I was to do less.’ ‘But what is wrong?’ asked Bella, puzzled and scared by this circumlocution, and now perceiving the round rubicund visage of the housekeeper looking in at the door. ‘Is Mr. Harefield ill?’ ‘No, Miss Scratched, it isn’t that--but we cannot find him.’ ‘You can’t find him?’