“In the morning-room? Thanks, Mary.” And then, in apology, “My dear, I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting.” Laura spoke breathlessly, in a sudden panic— “Mrs. Cloud—the boy wanted an answer. I had to open it. There’s been a telegram.” “Justin?” cried Mrs. Cloud instantly. “No. No.” Then Mrs. Cloud turned white. “Not John?” “Yes.” Mrs. Cloud sat down as if she had suddenly no strength. But her voice was steady as she said—“Give me the telegram,” and her hand was steady as she took it. She even said—“Thank you, my dear.” She was awful to Laura in that moment. Eager young sympathy shrank back rebuked before gentle Mrs. Cloud, sitting quietly in her chair. She dared not speak. She could only stand and wait till the silence that had come into the room like a spirit should have passed. Once indeed—it was a most piteous sound—she heard a little faint inarticulate moan, and turned quickly; but Mrs. Cloud’s face was like a stone face, and she did not stir under Laura’s anxious eyes. Yet when the maid knocked at last and entered with her, “Lunch is served, ma’am,” Laura marvelled to see her rouse herself and speak— “Mary, tell Robert I want the carriage. At once. And pack me a bag, please. I have to go up to town for two or three nights.” And then she turned to Laura with even a little smile for her obvious distress. “It’s all right, my dear. Run and have your lunch.” Laura did not want any lunch. Laura knew that Mrs. Cloud ought not to go up to town unaccompanied, and managed, timidly, to say so. But Mrs. Cloud, scribbling an address in her notebook, paid no heed to her or to the maid who ruled her in her daily life, and drove away from their bewilderment at last, looking bowed and unfamiliar and very old—a little old woman carved in ivory. “She’s got her black on. She hasn’t worn that cloak these ten years,” said the maid. And then, with a gasp—“Miss Laura, what is it? I—I been with her twenty years.” Laura judged it wisest to tell her. “It’s bad news, Mary. Mr. Justin’s brother——” “Mr. John?” “He died yesterday.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXII When Justin, a fortnight later, heard the story of that afternoon, he was very angry with Laura. Letting his mother go alone! In that state of trouble! Why, a child might have known better! “She wouldn’t let me, Justin! If you’d seen her! One couldn’t move her. She was like iron.” “Mother! Like iron!” Justin was angry and pitiful at once. “You ought to have insisted,” he said shortly, and his tone added, “I thought I could have trusted you.” She was miserable at his displeasure, although she did not resent it. She guessed that it must ease him to vent in any way his regret for his own absence; but she knew, too, that whatever he thought, she had not failed Mrs. Cloud.