Surprise and disappointment were Annie's first feelings. She looked forlornly enough at the meagre scrap of writing that was her share, and with some wonder at the letter--no doubt voluminous--which was Geoffrey's. What could it be about? Arthur and Ludlow had been good friends, it is true, and had entertained strong mutual respect; but she could not account for this solemn communication, implying so strange and absolute a confidence. She turned the letter over in her hands, she scrutinised the address, the paper, the seal; then she rose and locked it carefully away, together with the note to herself in which it had been: enclosed. "Give this letter _privately_ to Ludlow," were Arthur's words; then, if he did not wish its delivery to be known, it was plain he wished to conceal its existence. If Lady Beauport should question her as to the contents of the packet? Well, she must either give an evasive answer, or refuse to answer at all; the alternative should be decided by the terms of the question. She could venture to refuse an answer to a question of Lady Beauport's now; her heiress-ship had secured her many immunities, that one among the rest. Lord Beauport was right; Annie was weary, and looking so. The sickness and dreariness of a great grief were upon her, and she was worn out. The stillness of the great house was oppressive to her; and yet she shrank from the knowledge that that stillness was soon to pass away, that life would resume its accustomed course, and the dead be forgotten. By all but her; to her his memory should be ever precious, and his least wish sacred. Then she debated within herself how she should fulfil his last request. There were difficulties in the way. She could not tell Geoffrey to call on her yet, nor could she go to his house. Then she remembered that he had not written to her. She had forgotten, until then, that there had been no answer to the letter in which she told Geoffrey Ludlow of Caterham's death. Could a letter have come, and been overlooked? She rang for her maid and questioned her, but she was positive no letter had been mislaid or forgotten. Several papers lay on her writing-table; she turned them over, to satisfy herself, though nothing could be more improbable than that she should have overlooked a letter from her dear old friend. There was no such thing. Puzzled and vaguely distressed, Annie stood looking at the heap of notes, with her hands pressed on her throbbing temples; and her maid entreated her to lie down and rest, commenting, as Lord Beauport had done, upon her appearance. Annie complied; and the girl carefully darkened the room and left her. For a while she lay still, thinking how she was to convey the letter to Geoffrey, without delay, "as soon as possible," Arthur had said; but she soon dropped into the dull heavy sleep of grief and exhaustion.