The rector happened to take up the great-coat of the old gentleman, in which he found a small breast pocket, that had been undiscovered till now, and in this a letter. The envelope was gone, but the letter, in a lady's hand began: "My dearest papa." "We are all right, by Jove, we're in luck!" "How does she sign herself?" said the doctor. "'Alice Arden,' and she dates from 8, Chester Terrace," answered the clergyman. "We'll telegraph forthwith," said the doctor. "It had best be in your name--the clergyman, you know--to a young lady." So together they composed the telegram. "Shall it be _ill_ simply, or _dangerously_ ill?" inquired the clergyman. "Dangerously," said the doctor. "But _dangerously_ may terrify her." "And if we say only _ill_, she mayn't come at all," said the doctor. So the telegram was placed in Truelock's hands, who went himself with it to the office; and we shall follow it to its destination. CHAPTER X. THE ROYAL OAK. Three people were sitting in Lady May Penrose's drawing-room, in Chester Terrace, the windows of which, as all her ladyship's friends are aware, command one of the parks. They were looking westward, where the sky was all a-glow with the fantastic gold and crimson of sunset. It is quite a mistake to fancy that sunset, even in the heart of London--which this hardly could be termed--has no rural melancholy and poetic fascination in it. Should that hour by any accident overtake you, in the very centre of the city, looking, say, from an upper window, or any other elevation toward the western sky beyond stacks of chimneys, roofs, and steeples, even through the smoke of London, you will feel the melancholy and poetry of sunset, in spite of your surroundings. A little silence had stolen over the party; and young Vivian Darnley, who stole a glance now and then at beautiful Alice Arden, whose large, dark, grey eyes were gazing listlessly towards the splendid mists, that were piled in the west, broke the silence by a remark that, without being very wise, or very new, was yet, he hoped, quite in accord with the looks of the girl, who seemed for a moment saddened. "I wonder why it is that sunset, which is so beautiful, makes us all sad!" "It never made me sad," said good Lady May Penrose, comfortably. "There is, I think, something very pleasant in a good sunset; there _must_ be, for all the little birds begin to sing in it--it must be cheerful. Don't you think so, Alice?" Alice was, perhaps, thinking of something quite different, for rather listlessly, and without a change of features, she said, "Oh, yes, very." "So, Mr. Darnley, you may sing, 'Oh, leave me to my sorrow!' for we won't mope with you about the sky. It is a very odd taste, that for being dolorous and miserable. I don't understand it--I never could." Thus rebuked by Lady Penrose, and deserted by Alice, Darnley laughed and said--