"It is strange, Kate," he said, "but I remember Annabel predicting this end for herself. We were sitting in the white-and-gold parlour in the London House, where I had found her playing with the cat in a very merry mood. Suddenly she imagined the cat had scratched her, and she spread out her little brown hand, and looked for the wound. There was none visible; but she pointed to a certain spot at the base of her finger, and said, '>Look, Piers. There is the sign of my doom,--my death-token. I shall perish in fire and blood.' Then she laughed and quickly changed the subject, and I did not think it worth pursuing. Yet it was in her mind, for a few minutes afterwards, she opened her hand again, held it to the light, and added, 'An old Hindoo priest told me this. He said our death-warrant was written on our palms, and we brought it into life with us.'" "You should have contradicted that, Piers." "I did. I told her, our death-warrant was in the Hand of Him with whom alone are the issues of life and death." "She was haunted by the prophecy," said Kate. "She often spoke of it. Oh, Piers, how merciful is the veil that hides our days to come!" "I feel wretched. Let us go to Atheling; it will do us good." "It is very warm yet, Piers." "Never mind, I want to see the children. The house is too still. They have been at Atheling for three days." "We promised them a week. Harold will expect the week; and Edith and Maude will rebel at any shorter time." "At any rate let us go and see them." "Shall we ride there?" "Let us rather take a carriage. One of the three may possibly be willing to come back with us." Near the gates of Atheling they met the Squire and his grandson Harold. They had been fishing. "The dew was on the grass when we went away; and Harold has been into the water after the trout. We are both a bit wet," said the Squire; "but our baskets are full." And then Harold leaped into the carriage beside his father and mother, and proudly exhibited his speckled beauties. Mrs. Atheling had heard their approach, and she was at the open door to meet them. Very little change had taken place in her. Her face was a trifle older, but it was finer and tenderer; and her smile was as sweet and ready, and her manner as gracious--though perhaps a shade quieter than in the days when we first met her. Her granddaughter Edith, a girl of eight years, stood at her side; and Maude, a charming babe of four, clung to her black-silk apron, and half-hid her pretty face in its sombre folds. To her mother, Kate was still Kate; and to Kate, mother was still mother. They went into the house together, little Maude making a link between them, and Edith holding her mother's hand. But, in the slight confusion following their arrival, the children all disappeared.