“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse, “Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting up this afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to see you at once in the morning room.” Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen. Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall certainly have.” As he spoke, a crash of thunder shook the house from basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed in quick succession. “Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.” She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice had grown alarmingly faint and weak. “This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang through the room. The dog himself trembled violently and began to sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with me as long as you can.” Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him. Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly departed on his mission. And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash lighted up the otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected, urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty. “We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively, looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from “Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the lightning played about the room.