Dr. Rane, not particularly interested in the said foreign letters, went on with his breakfast. Jelly, with characteristic composure, stood at ease just inside the window watching the process. "That ham is dried up to fiddle-strings," she suddenly said. "Yes. Phillis has done it too much." "And I should like to have the doing of her!" spoke Jelly in wrathful tones. "It is a sin to spoil good food." "So it is," said Dr. Rane. "So that poor young man's gone!" she resumed, as he cracked an egg. The doctor lifted his head quickly. "What young man?" "Edmund North. He died at half-past seven this morning." "Who says so?" cried Dr. Rane, a startled look crossing his face. "The milkman told me: he heard the passing-bell toll out. You needn't be surprised, sir: there has been no hope from the first." "But there has been hope," disputed the doctor. "There was hope yesterday at midday, there was hope last night. I don't believe he is dead." "Well, sir, then you must disbelieve it," equably answered Jelly; but she glanced keenly at him from her green eyes. "Edmund North is as certainly dead as that I stand here." He seemed strangely moved at the tidings: a quiver stirred his lips, the colour in his face faded to whiteness. Jelly, having looked as much as she chose, turned to depart. "Then we may send in the fowl, sir?" "Yes, yes." He watched her dreamily as she crossed the low fence and disappeared within her proper domains; he pushed the neglected ham from him, he turned sick at the lightly done egg, of which the shell had just been broken. What, though he preferred eggs lightly done in calm times? calm times were not these. The news did indeed trouble him in no measured degree: it was so sad for a man in the prime of early life to be cut off thus. Edmund North was only a year or two older than himself: two days ago he had been as full of health and life, deep in the plans and projects of this world, thinking little of the next. Sad? it was horrible. And Dr. Rane's breakfast was spoiled for that day. He got up to walk the room restlessly: he looked at himself in the glass; possibly to see how the news might have affected his features; in all he did there was a hurried, confused sort of motion, betraying that the mind must be in a state of perturbation. By-and-by he snatched up his hat, and went forth, taking the direction of the Hall. "I ought to call. It will look well for me to call. It is a civility I owe them," he kept repeating at intervals, as he strode along. Just as though he thought in his inmost heart he ought _not_ to call, and were seeking arguments to excuse himself from doing so.