“Perhaps you’d better read this first,” Stafford said, handing him a telegram. “It came this morning, and I brought it with me, but would not give it to you till after the play, for fear it might contain bad news.” Now young Stafford knew perfectly well the nature of the telegram, for he had been in the office when it came, and decided not to deliver it until the play was over. It was from Everard’s father, and read as follows: “TO J. EVERARD FORREST, JR.—Your mother is very sick. Come immediately. J. E. FORREST.” “Oh, Stafford,” and Everard’s voice was like the cry of a wounded child, “why didn’t you give me this before. There was a train left at five o’clock. I could have taken it, and saved——” He did not finish the sentence, for he could not put into words the great horror of impending evil which had fallen upon him with the receipt of that telegram. Indeed, he could not define to himself the nature of his feelings. He only knew that he wished he had gone home in answer to Rossie’s summons, instead of coming to Holburton. And in this he meant no disloyalty to Josephine, nor attributed any blame to her; and when, next morning, after a troubled night, in which no sleep visited his weary eyes, he met her at the breakfast-table looking as bright, and fresh, and pretty as if she too, had not kept a sleepless vigil, he experienced a delicious feeling of ownership in her, and for a few moments felt willing to defy the whole world, if by so doing he could claim her as his, then and there. He told her of the telegram, and said he must take the first train west, which left in about two hours, and Josephine’s eyes instantly filled with tears, as she said: “I am so sorry for you, and I hope your mother will recover. I have always wished to see her so much. Would you mind telling her of me, and giving my love to her?” This was after breakfast, when they stood together under the vine-wreathed porch, each with a thought of last night’s ceremony in their minds, and each loth to speak of it first. Stafford had gone to the hotel to settle his bill of the previous day and make some inquiries about the connection of the trains, and thus the family were alone when Dr. Matthewson appeared, wearing his blandest smile, and addressing Josephine as Mrs. Forrest, and asking her how she found herself after the play. At the sound of that name given to Josephine as if she had a right to it, a scarlet flame spread over Everard’s face, and he felt the old horror and dread of the night creeping over him again. Now was the time to know the worst or the best,—whichever way he chose to put it,—and as calmly as possible under the circumstances, he turned to Dr. Matthewson and asked: “Were you in earnest in what you said last night? Had you a right to marry us, and is Josephine my wife?”