But she gathered enough, almost in a first perusal, to convince her something was very wrong at the Hollow; and, although she had no invitation from Heather to do so, still she instantly resolved to start for Berrie Down. With Bessie, as a rule, to resolve was to perform; and, accordingly, that very same evening, she astonished the Dudley household by walking coolly in amongst her cousins as they were sitting down to tea. “Well, and what is this about Lally?” she asked, after she had kissed the girls, and inquired for Heather; “what is the matter with her?” “Did Alick not tell you?” answered the assembled Dudleys in chorus. “Alick,” repeated Miss Ormson. “I have not seen Alick. I only heard a vague rumour this morning about something wonderful having occurred, and so I thought that I would come down and learn the certainties of the matter for myself. One of you girls, I think, might have written to tell me; but I suppose it is with you as with the rest of the world—out of sight, out of mind.” “Heather would not let us write to any one,” said Agnes. “Then Heather ought not to have had her own way,” retorted Bessie; “and then, I suppose, she has been up with that child night after night, taking no rest, eating nothing, fretting herself to death.” “We all wanted to sit up,” exclaimed Lucy Dudley, “but she would trust no person.” “Precisely what I expected,” said Bessie, who had by this time divested herself of cloak and bonnet, and now stood beside the fire looking as trim and pretty as though she had just stepped out of her dressing-room. “And so Lally is very bad?” “That is precisely what she says herself,” answered Laura. “Whenever the pain leaves her for a minute or two, she settles down a little in the bed and whispers, ‘Poor Lally’s very bad.’” “Is she in danger?” asked Bessie. “I do not know; the doctor will not tell us.” “Is Arthur at home?” “No; Heather would not let him know how ill Lally was,” answered Agnes; “but I wrote yesterday—not that I suppose he could do any good, if he were here.” “She fell into the mill-pond?”—this was interrogative. “She was pushed in,” answered Cuthbert, with a vicious look towards Harry, who sat at the farthest corner of the table with his legs tucked up under his chair, a great slice of bread and butter and honey in one hand, and a huge cup of tea in the other. “I didn’t push her in,” remarked that young gentleman. “No, but you told Leonard to shove her,” said Cuthbert, shaking his hand at his brother menacingly. “Well, how was I to know she would topple over like that?” persisted Harry. “If she was loose on her perch, that wasn’t my fault, was it? and it’s not right of you to go on like that at me. Mrs. Dudley said you wasn’t to do it; she came and she talked to me, she did, and said she believed me, if nobody else didn’t.”