"Not the consumption that attacks most people. If ever man died of a broken heart, George has." "Did he come home to die? I mean, knowing that he was soon about to die?" "No. He was weak and emaciated when he came, worn to a shadow; but he did not become really ill, dangerously ill, until afterwards." "Do the servants know of it?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Will they be told of it?" "Certainly not. We hope to keep it private to the end." "But there must be——" "Yes, yes," he hastily interrupted, seeing she would have alluded to the funeral. "Laken manages all that. What a bright morning it is!" Mr. Chandos leaned from the window as if to turn the conversation. Emily, easily swayed, plucked a piece of mignonette. "I suppose mamma will come downstairs to-day. Well, it's time she did." "It is," asserted Mr. Chandos. "For more reasons than one," she tartly added, which was a lance-shaft at me. Hickens came in with the urn. Seeing the letters lying there untouched, he spoke with the familiarity of a privileged servant. "The Indian mail is in, sir." Mr. Chandos turned quickly to the table. "I see it is, Hickens." But I don't think he had seen it until then. "I suppose there's nothing for me from Alfred," said Madame de Mellissie, languidly looking round. "I'm not anxious to read it if there is: it would only be full of groans and scolding. Or from Tom, either? He never writes to me." Mr. Chandos shook his head. "There's only one from Tom, and that is to me." "But I see another Indian letter," she said, slowly approaching the table. "It has a black seal." "Not from Thomas: it is in a strange handwriting. It is addressed to my mother." "Any letters for my lady, sir?" asked Hill, entering the parlour. "Two. One of them from India, tell her; but not from Sir Thomas." Hill retreated with the letters. Emily placed herself in my seat at the head of the table, and we began breakfast. It was a poor meal for all of us that morning. Mr. Chandos drank his coffee at a draught, and opened his brother's letter. "They were on the eve of action, Emily," he presently said. "Just going into it when Thomas wrote this. Some local engagement." "Is it well over?" "I hope so. But he closed this letter at once. Here is what he says in conclusion: 'I shall drop this into the post now, and if I come out of the turmoil safely, give you a second note to say so. That is, if the post should not have gone: if it has, you must wait another fortnight.' Where's the evening paper?" added Mr. Chandos, seeking out a newspaper which had come with the letters, and tearing it open. "News of this action, however unimportant it was, ought to have come by telegraph." He had scarcely said this when Hill came in, speaking and looking like one in alarm. I thought of the police; I fancy Mr. Chandos did. "Sir—Mr. Harry—my lady wishes you to come to her instantly."