Marion’s resolution was instantly shaken. She fortunately remembered the name of the hotel at which Sir Ralph was staying; and that evening’s post bore to him a letter from her, enclosing poor Sybil’s piteous appeal. She told Sir Ralph that she was unable to explain the cause of the child’s suffering; but that she suspected that some cruel trick had been played by Emilie, the maid, for the sake of terrifying her into silence. She apologised for her boldness in writing to trouble him about it; but added that she saw nothing else to do, as her own efforts had failed to awaken Lady Severn’s anxiety about the poor little girl; and she ended by begging him to return to Altes as soon as possible to judge for himself, without of course betraying her confidence, or that of the poor child. Once her letter was fairly gone, Marion began to be rather frightened at what she had done. She was perfectly satisfied that the step she had taken was a right and indeed unavoidable one; but then there came the after thought. “What will he think of me for having done it? Knowing what I do of his opinion of me, how could I have been the one, for any reason whatever, to summon him back here before I leave!” And she felt half inclined to run away from Altes before he could possibly arrive! And yet with it all, there was a strange under current of inexpressible happiness in the thought that now she was almost sure to see him again, to hear him speak, to feel him looking kindly at her once more. “Once more!” If only that, and nothing beyond, yet that once more was worth living for. Two—three days passed. Then came the fourth, the day before the one on which Marion had calculated it might be possible to receive an answer from Paris. She had not been alone with Sybil for more than a moment since receiving her note. Lotty seemed inquisitive and suspicious, and Sybil was evidently afraid of her. Marion could only manage to whisper to the child that she had done what she asked, without any further explanation passing between them. Sybil brightened up wonderfully on hearing this, and for some few days looked so much better that Marion began to think Sir Ralph would consider her alarm about his little niece very exaggerated, if not altogether uncalled for. The reflection was not a pleasant one! There was no letter on the fifth morning, nor up to the eighth! which did not make her feel any the more comfortable, and on her way to the Rue des Lauriers, one week after her letter had gone, she really began most heartily to wish she had not written at all. But the first sight of Sybil changed her feelings entirely. The child looked exceedingly ill, and was, as before, utterly unable to attend to her lessons. She lay on the sofa without speaking, and hardly took any notice even of her kind friend. Only as Marion was leaving, and bent down to kiss her, Sybil whispered, hurriedly: “Is he coming?” “Yes, dear, I hope so,” replied Marion, in the same voice.