“You are Yulah,” Beatrice said, in German, and the girl answered with a cry of joy, “Yes, and you are the Lady Beatrice she talks so much about, and he is not Mr. Everard.” “No, my husband, Mr. Morton. We were married just before we sailed. Where is she? When did you see her last, and how soon can we have her? Will they let her go without any trouble, and what are we to do?” Beatrice asked her questions so rapidly as to confuse and bewilder the girl, who shook her head, and answered in English: “You ask so many, I don’t know quite all. But I go to-morrow and tell her, and see how we can do best. He will never let her go, there is too much money in her. That doctor pay big sums. We must take her, that’s all, and be so careful. You stay here till I come or send some word: not to-morrow, but next day, perhaps. I not talk more now. I be at my duties.” She left the room then, and Beatrice saw no more of her until the day but one following, when about dark she came into the room, flushed and excited, and evidently a little shaken out of her usual quiet, composed manner. She had been to Haelder-Strauchsen; she had seen Rossie, but had not told her of her friends’ arrival. “I did not dare,” she said, “she’s so weak and sick, no heart, no courage, but stands by the window all the day, looking to the west, and whispering, sometimes, ‘Oh, Everard, why do you not come, and I waiting so long?’ But we’ll get her sure. God fixed it for us, and he,—the doctor, I mean,—is awful with something they think is cholera, and all is fright and confusion, for the nurses is afraid and leaving, and Miss Rossie’s attendant is glad to have me take her place. So I am going back to-morrow, and you must go with me and stay in the town a mile away, until I send or bring you word what you do next. You are not afraid of cholera? Americans mostly is.”