“Is he the first? How did she come to write _The Resting-place_ then? Tell me that!” Anita thrust at him with her forefinger and behind her, in the corner, I saw the gesture duplicated. “So I will when I’ve read the new book, dear lady.” “If ever it writes itself,” Miss Howe underlined him. “As to that—I give her a year, as I say. Once this business is over—” his voice mellowed into kindliness—“and good luck to her, dear woman——” “Ah, good luck!” said Miss Howe and smiled at him. “Once it’s over, I say——” “But she _will_ be all right, won’t she?” said the Baxter girl. “I should certainly have been told——” began Anita. Miss Howe harangued them— “Have you ever known Madala Grey fail yet? She’ll be all right. She’ll pull it off—triumphantly. You see! But as for the book—if it comes——” “When it comes,” corrected Mr. Flood. “What’s that?” said Anita sharply. There was a sound in the passage, a heavy sound of feet. It caught at my heart. It was a sound that I knew. They had come tramping up the stairs like that when they fetched away Mother. Thud—stumble—thud! I shivered. But as the steps came nearer they belonged to but one man. The door opened and the fog and the man entered together. Everyone turned to him with a queer, long flash of faces. “Kent!” cried Anita, welcoming him. Then her voice changed. “Kent! What’s wrong? What is it?” He shut the door behind him and stood, his back against it, staring at us, like a man stupefied. The Baxter girl broke in shrilly— “He’s wired. He’s had a wire!” She pointed at his clenched hand. Then he, too, looked down at his own hand. His fingers relaxed slowly and a crush of red and grey paper slid to the floor. “A son,” he said dully. “Ah!” A cry from the corner by the fire eased the tension. Great-aunt Serle was clapping her hands together. Her face was wrinkled all over with delight. “The good girl! The pretty——And a son too! A little son! Oh, the good girl!” Anita turned on her, her voice like a scourge— “Be quiet, Mother!” Then—“Well, Kent? Well?” “Well?” he repeated after her. “Madala? How’s Madala? What about Madala Grey?” “Dead!” he said. _Dead._ The word fell amongst the group of us in the circle of lamp-light, like a plummet into a pool. _Dead._ For an instant one could hear the blank drop of it. Then we broke up into gestures and little cries, into a babel of dismay and concern and rather horrible excitement.