“It is the opposite way!” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, who at the same moment stepped up to the window. Henrietta’s heart throbbed fearfully as she saw how wearied was the boy’s running, and yet how rapid. She could hardly stand as she followed her uncles to the hall; her mother at the same moment came downstairs, and all together met the little boy, as, breathless, exhausted, unable to speak, he rushed into the hall, and threw himself upon his father, leaning his head against him and clinging as if he could not stand. “Why Will, how now, my boy? Have you been racing?” said his father, kneeling on one knee, and supporting the poor little wearied fellow, as he almost lay upon his breast and shoulder. “What is the matter now?” There was a deep silence only interrupted by the deep pantings of the boy. Henrietta leant on the banisters, giddy with suspense. Uncle Geoffrey stepped into the dining-room, and brought back a glass of wine and some water. Aunt Mary parted the damp hair that hung over his forehead, laid her cold hand on it, and said, “Poor little fellow.” At her voice Willy looked up, clung faster to his father, and whispered something unintelligible. “What? Has anything happened? What is the matter?” were questions anxiously asked, while Uncle Geoffrey in silence succeeded in administering the wine; after which Willy managed to say, pointing to his aunt, “Don’t--tell--her.” It was with a sort of ghastly composure that she leant over him, saying, “Don’t be afraid, my dear, I am ready to hear it.” He raised himself, and gazed at her in perplexity and wonder. Henrietta’s violently throbbing heart took from her almost the perception of what was happening. “Take breath, Willy,” said his father; “don’t keep us all anxious.” “Bee said I was to tell Uncle Geoffrey,” said the boy. “Is she safe?” asked Aunt Mary, earnestly. “Yes.” “Thanks to God,” said she, holding out her hand to Uncle Geoffrey, with a look of relief and congratulation, and yet of inexpressible mournfulness which went to his heart. “And Fred?” said Uncle Roger. “Do not ask, Roger,” said she, still as calmly as before; “I always knew how it would be.” Henrietta tried to exclaim, to inquire, but her lips would not frame one word, her tongue would not leave the roof of her mouth. She heard a few confused sounds, and then a mist came over her eyes, a rushing of waters in her ears, and she sank on the ground in a fainting fit. When she came to herself she was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, and all was still. “Mamma!” said she. “Here, dear child,”--but it was Mrs. Langford’s voice. “Mamma!” again said she. “Where is mamma? Where are they all? Why does the room turn round?” “You have not been well, my dear,” said her grandmother; “but drink this, and lie still, you will soon be better.” “Where is mamma?” repeated Henrietta, gazing round and seeing no one but Mrs. Langford and Bennet. “Was she frightened at my being ill? Tell her I am better.”