“Oh, if we could go on through storm and rain to the end! if we could drift out of this earthly river into the thick darkness of the great ocean!” she said to herself; “if the tangled skein of life could be severed with one stroke of the witch’s scissors! But we have to unravel the skein with our own weary fingers, and lay the threads smoothly out before we dare say our work is done, and lie down beside it to die.” They were at River Lawn by this time, drenched to the skin, despite the borrowed wraps. Mrs. Jerningham’s butler was waiting at the top of the landing-stage with umbrellas, and within there were fires burning and warm garments ready for the drenched travellers. Wilson took forcible possession of her dripping mistress in the hall. “Oh, mum, with your cough!” she exclaimed, in tones of horror; while Mrs. Colton assisted in drawing off the pulpy mass of limp gauze that had been such airy silken fabric in the morning. “Never mind my cough, Wilson,” said Mrs. Jerningham, impatiently. “Pray see to Lucy, aunt; she was less protected by the railway-rug than I. Good-night, Laurence, since I suppose I shall not be allowed to appear again this evening. Mr. Desmond will stop here to-night of course, aunt; will you see that he has a warm room, and that he drinks brandy-and-water, and that kind of thing? Let me see you to-morrow, please, Laurence; good-night.” After this Mrs. Jerningham consented to be carried off by the devoted Wilson, who did all she could to undo the mischief done by that watery voyage from Sunbury. More than one dweller beneath the pretty, fantastic roof of that river-side villa lay wakeful and restless throughout the summer night, listening to the pattering of the rain, the sobbing gusts of wind among the trees, and at daybreak the shrill clamour of distant farmyards. Three there were in that house for whom life’s journey seemed to lie through the thick wilderness--a wilderness unlighted by sun, moon, or stars; pathless, painful obscurity. In the breakfast-room that morning there was no sign of Mrs. Jerningham. Wilson sent to say that her mistress had slept very little, and was altogether too ill to rise; and on this Mrs. Colton repaired to her niece’s room, leaving Lucy and Laurence alone together at the breakfast-table, sorely embarrassed to find themselves so left. Lucy looked down at her plate, and to all appearance became absorbed in a profound meditation upon the pattern of the china. Laurence cut open the _Times_, and made a conventional remark upon the previous night’s debate, concerning the subject whereof Lucy knew about as much as she knew of lunar volcanoes. Mrs. Colton returned very quickly, much alarmed by her niece’s condition. She sent a messenger for the local doctor immediately, while Lucy ran away from the breakfast-table to see if she could be of any use to the invalid. “I trust Emily is not much the worse for last night’s business,” said Laurence, alarmed by Mrs. Colton’s evident anxiety.