“Is it now he is telling her? Does she know it yet? And what does she think of me, her mother? Will she call me by that name? Oh, Gertie, if I could see you now. Heaven grant you do not hate me.” Suddenly she grew calm, and said to me: “Something tells me it is over. Gertie knows the truth and does not hate me. Thank my Heavenly Father for that.” Edith slept that night, but was restless and impatient in the morning until the third message came. “She knows everything, and is very glad.” “Then why doesn’t she come home?” Edith said, and all that day she was in a feverish state of expectancy when a train from New York came in. But Gertie did not come, and the next day we read the words: “Gertie is very sick. Come immediately.” Then Edith frightened me, she turned so white and stood so still, while the iron fingers clutched her throat for the last time, and strangled her until her face was purple. I rang for help, but before it came the fingers relaxed their grasp, the natural color came back to the face, and Edith was herself again. Fortunately it was her maid who answered the ring, and telling her of the dispatch, and that she was going to New York, Edith bade her pack her travelling valise, and order the carriage for the next train, due in half an hour. “Oh, Ettie,” she cried, when we were alone, “God will not take her from me now. Pray that He will spare Gertie.” I think she prayed constantly, while getting herself ready, for her lips moved continually, and I caught the whispered words: “Don’t,—don’t,” and knew she was pleading for Gertie’s life. I went with her to the station and saw her on the train, and then returned to the Hill, charged with the responsibility of acquainting the household, and as many others as I saw fit with the story which it was better to have known while the family was absent. I found Mrs. Tiffe in her own room, and with her a Mrs. Noall, a great gossip but a thoroughly good-natured and well-meaning woman, and though she told all she knew, never told any more, and always told it as she heard it. Here was a good opportunity for the news to be thoroughly disseminated without much help from me, further than the telling it first to my auditors. And this it was easy to do, for they were talking of Mrs. Schuyler when I went in, and Mrs. Noall was wondering why they came home from Europe so suddenly, and why they both seemed so broken and worn. She _surmised_ that the colonel’s finances were in a very precarious condition; she knew he had suffered some heavy losses recently and perhaps he was going to fail. “It is not that,” I said. “It is something entirely different which has troubled Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler, and I have come in on purpose to tell you, as Mrs. Schuyler wishes the people to know it before her return.”