Wonderful subtle intuition of the poetic soul! Who does not know that strange contrast of death and life? A week ago, and had I seen Bertie from that window, I should have hailed his appearance with the wildest amazement. But I should neither have wondered nor faltered had I seen him this day; on the contrary, would have felt in my heart that it was natural and fit he should be there. But I did not see Bertie. I saw far off a homely country gig driving up rapidly towards the house, and strained my eyes, wondering if it could be Derwent, though he had sent me no intimation of his return. As it came closer, however, I saw that one of the figures it contained was a woman’s, and at last perceived that my visitors were no other than Alice Harley and her brother Maurice. I started nervously up, and hid away my dispatch, for I trembled to see my dear girl. What had she to do coming here?--she who could not ask after his fate with calmness, and yet to the bottom of her maiden heart felt that she had _no right_ to be concerned. Alice was very pale--I could see the nervous trembling over her whole frame, which she subdued painfully, and with a nervous force, as she came in. Though her voice would scarcely serve her to say the words, she made an explanation before she asked if I had any news. “My mother sent me,” said Alice, with bare childish simplicity, but with that breathless gasp in her voice which I knew so well--gasp of utter despair at the thought of enduring that suspense, and concealing it for five minutes longer--“to know if you had any further news--if you had heard,” she added, with a convulsive calmness, casting at me a fiery glance, defiant of the compassion she saw in my face. I saw she meant to say his name, to show me how firm she was, but nature was too much for Alice--she concluded hurriedly in the baldest, briefest words--“anything more?” I shook my head, and she sank into the nearest seat--not fainting--people do not faint at such moments--kept alive and conscious by a burning force of pain. “Only the same miserable news over again,” said I, “with the same mistake in the name; letters must come, I fear, before we can know--but I am afraid to hope.” A little convulsive sound came from Alice’s breast--she heard it herself, and drew herself up after it to hide the wound still if she could. Maurice, too, was greatly affected, though he could scarcely be said to have known Bertie; he walked about the room in his careless man’s way, doing everything in the world without intending it, to make that composure we two women had wound ourselves up to, impossible--making his lamentations as he paced about from table to table, picking up all the books to look at them as he went and came.