"That's Joanna Southcott. But, my good young gentleman, I will answer all your questions another time. Your mother and I will have enough to do to arrange matters before your father comes home. You will excuse my freedom, Sir." "Certainly," said Charley, rather amused than otherwise with the landlady's bluntness. "I know I'm in the way just now; so I'll step out for half an hour or so. I am sorry I frightened you, dear mother." He stooped and kissed her fondly; and then, with a smile and a nod at Mrs. Basil, stepped into the little passage and out of doors, and, whistling, passed the window down the street. "Your son has a light heart," said Mrs. Basil, looking at Harry very earnestly. "How old is he?" "Eighteen--or a little less." "He looks his age _at least_," observed the other, emphatically. "Yes; dark people always do." "And your husband is dark, like him, I remember." "Yes; his complexion is swarthy, though he is not slim, like Charles." Mrs. Coe, still in the arm-chair into which she had first sunk, here closed her eyes; either the faintness of which she had complained was coming on again, or she did not wish to meet the other's searching gaze. There was a long pause, during which Mrs. Basil went to the cellaret, and pouring out a glass of sherry, put it to her tenant's lips. "Do you feel better now?" said she, when Harry had drunk it. "Yes, yes; much better. But that skull--oh, horrible! it rolled from him to me. What an omen on your very threshold! Heaven guard my Charles from evil!" "This is weakness, Mrs. Coe. The skull is harmless; and it rolled because your son upset it." "Yes, my son," gasped the other, trembling. "It is for him I fear. It augurs death--death--death!" There was a ring at the front-door, decisive, sharp, and resonant. "Great Heaven!" cried Harry; "if it should be he himself! Hide me away; put me out of sight." Her terror was piteous to behold: she shook in every limb. "It is the post," said Mrs. Basil, contemptuously; and she was right. The servant brought in a letter for her mistress. "I don't know the hand," mused she. "Black-bordered, and black-sealed too." She opened it without excitement, and read it through: it was but a few lines. "Your omen has proved true for once, Mrs. Coe," said she, in quiet tones. "This speaks of death." "Whose death?" cried Harry. "My husband's, Richard's father. Carew of Crompton died last night." There was no sorrow in the aged woman's face: a gravity, unmixed with tenderness, possessed it. Carew was naught to her, and had been naught for twoscore years. But the tide of memory was at its flow within her brain; and because the Past _is_ Past it touches us. This man had loved her once, after his own scornful manner, when he was young, and before power and selfishness had made him stone. He had been the father of her only son, and now he was Dead. "I am so sorry," said Harry, not quite knowing what to say.