“A telegram for you, sir,” said the girl with a sharp glance at her mistress. “The telegraph boy brought it on here, when he heard that you were not at home, because he said he would be sure to find you here—and please, sir, he hopes that you will give him sixpence for bringing it round, as he thought it might be important.” Edward felt in his pocket and gave the girl a shilling, telling her to say that there was no answer. As soon as she had gone, he opened the telegram. It was from his sister in London, and ran as follows: “Come up to town at once. Father has had a stroke of paralysis. Shall expect you by the seven o’clock train.” “What is it?” said Mrs. Quest, noting the alarm on his face. “Why, my father is very ill. He has had a stroke of paralysis, and I must go to town by the next train.” “Shall you be long away?” “I do not know. How can I tell? Good-bye, Belle. I am sorry that we should have had this scene just as I am going, but I can’t help it.” “Oh, Edward,” she said, catching him by the arm and turning her tear-stained face up towards his own, “you are not angry with me, are you? Do not let us part in anger. How can I help being jealous when I love you so? Tell me that you do not hate me—or I shall be wretched all the time that you are away.” “No, no, of course not—but I must say, I wish that you would not make such shocking scenes—good-bye.” “Good-bye,” she answered as she gave him her shaking hand. “Good-bye, my dear. If only you knew what I feel here,” she pointed to her breast, “you would make excuses for me.” Almost before she had finished her sentence he was gone. She stood near the door, listening to his retreating footsteps till they had quite died away, and then flung herself in the chair and rested her head upon her hands. “I shall lose him,” she said to herself in the bitterness of her heart. “I know I shall. What chance have I against her? He already cares for Ida a great deal more than he does for me, in the end he will break from me and marry her. Oh, I had rather see him dead—and myself too.” Half-an-hour later, Mr. Quest came in. “Where is Cossey?” he asked. “Mr. Cossey’s father has had a stroke of paralysis and he has gone up to London to look after him.” “Oh,” said Mr. Quest. “Well, if the old gentleman dies, your friend will be one of the wealthiest men in England.” “Well, so much the better for him. I am sure money is a great blessing. It protects one from so much.” “Yes,” said Mr. Quest with emphasis, “so much the better for him, and all connected with him. Why have you been crying? Because Cossey has gone away—or have you quarrelled with him?” “How do you know that I have been crying? If I have, it’s my affair. At any rate my tears are my own.” “Certainly, they are—I do not wish to interfere with your crying—cry when you like. It will be lucky for Cossey if that old father of his dies just now, because he wants money.” “What does he want money for?”