"If you ask me my opinion, I think that she does suspect the truth,--very vaguely, with an indefinite feeling that the calamity which weighs so heavily on your father, has come from this source. She, dear lady, is greatly to be pitied. But God has made her of firmer material than your father, and I think that she will bear her sorrow with a higher courage." "And she is to be told also?" "Yes, I think so. I do not see how we can avoid it. If we do not tell her we must attempt to conceal it, and that attempt must needs be futile when we are engaged in making open inquiry on the subject. Your cousin, when he hears of this, will of course be anxious to know what his real prospects are." "Yes, yes. He will be anxious, and determined too." "And then, when all the world will know it, how is your mother to be kept in the dark? And that which she fears and anticipates is as bad, probably, as the actual truth. If my advice be followed nothing will be kept from her." "We are in your hands, I suppose, Mr. Prendergast?" "I can only act as my judgment directs me." "And who is to tell her?" This he asked with a shudder, and almost in a whisper. The very idea of undertaking such a duty seemed almost too much for him. And yet he must undertake a duty almost as terrible; he himself--no one but him--must endure the anguish of repeating this story to Clara Desmond and to the countess. But now the question had reference to his own mother. "And who is to tell her?" he asked. For a moment or two Mr. Prendergast stood silent. He had not hitherto, in so many words, undertaken this task--this that would be the most dreadful of all. But if he did not undertake it, who would? "I suppose that I must do it," at last he said, very gently. "And when?" "As soon as I have told your cousin. I will go down to him to-morrow after breakfast. Is it probable that I shall find him at home?" "Yes, if you are there before ten. The hounds meet to-morrow at Cecilstown, within three miles of him, and he will not leave home till near eleven. But it is possible that he may have a house full of men with him." "At any rate I will try. On such an occasion as this he may surely let his friends go to the hunt without him." And then between nine and ten this interview came to an end. "Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Prendergast, as he pressed Herbert's hand, "you have borne all this as a man should do. No loss of fortune can ruin one who is so well able to endure misfortune." But in this Mr. Prendergast was perhaps mistaken. His knowledge of human nature had not carried him sufficiently far. A man's courage under calamity is only tested when he is left in solitude. The meanest among us can bear up while strange eyes are looking at us. And then Mr. Prendergast went away, and he was alone.