Her meditations were interrupted by a tap, the gentlest of taps, at the door, and in reply to her "Come in," Mrs Wentworth appeared. She was all dressed and ready to go down-stairs. Imogen started up. "Oh, mamsey," she exclaimed, "I am so ashamed of myself! I had no idea it was so late. Why hasn't Colman wakened me?" "I would not let her," her mother replied, kissing her tenderly as she spoke. "She said you were sleeping so sweetly an hour ago. I tapped very softly, not to wake you in case you were still asleep." "But I must jump up now and be as quick as possible," said Imogen. "There is really no hurry," Mrs Wentworth replied. "Indeed, Colman and I were wondering if you would not like your breakfast brought up. I am sure it will be a most irregular meal this morning." "Breakfast in bed, and I quite well! Oh dear, no," said Imogen, laughing. "I will be ready in twenty minutes, at most." "But first," said Mrs Wentworth, "here are two letters for you; at least, a letter and a note," and she held them out. Imogen seized the former. "From Dora," she said. "How nice! Now, when I answer it, I shall have all about last night to tell her. And a note." She took it and examined it doubtfully. "I don't know the writing--at least, I'm not sure. I fancy I've seen it before--oh yes; I believe it's Major Winchester's. What can he have to write to me about, when he's just going to see me at breakfast?" "I don't know about that," said Mrs Wentworth, who was dying of curiosity, mingled, it must be allowed, with a worthier feeling. "I have heard some news already this morning. Major Winchester has been called away. He and his brother breakfasted early, and started off to catch the ten o'clock express." Imogen's face fell. "Oh dear, how dreadfully vexing!" she exclaimed. "Just when we had planned such a nice day. I'm afraid there must be something wrong; bad news about his sister, probably. And this note will be to explain about it." She looked up questioningly in her mother's face, toying idly with the letter in her fingers as she did so. "Very likely; it is pretty sure to be so," said Mrs Wentworth. "But why in the world don't you open it, my dear, and then you would see?" There was a touch of impatience in her tone; but she controlled herself and turned away, as Imogen began to tear the envelope, feeling that the girl might prefer to read it unobserved. But scarcely a moment seemed to have passed before she heard herself called back to Imogen's bedside. She started as she caught the sound of her child's voice. It seemed choked and gasping, and Imogen herself was lying back, almost as white as the pillow. "My darling," Mrs Wentworth exclaimed, "what is the matter? Are you fainting?" "No, no. Read that. Oh, mamma!" said the girl, incoherently, and she thrust the sheet of paper into her mother's hand. These were the words on which fell Mrs Wentworth's bewildered gaze: My Dearest,--