They walked homewards. Their foot-steps rustled in the long grass; and the latch of the wicket fell with a sharp sound, so deep was the quiet of the place. At the gate of the cottage they met the postman; always late, and often very irregular in that village. He knew Mr. Haveloc by sight; and, glad to escape a walk to his residence, he touched his hat, and presented him with a letter. The handwriting was Margaret's. He had often seen it, and admired its beauty, although she had never before written to him. Knowing the conditions upon which Mr. Grey had agreed that she should write to him, he hesitated to open it. He knew it must contain bad news of his friend's health. "But read it, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had stood glancing over one or two indifferent letters, while he was hesitating. "You would not stand on ceremony with me." He tore it open with trembling hands, and read the following lines:-- "I am desired by Mr. Grey to summon you to Ashdale. He is very ill; and I tell you now, because it is easier to write than to speak it; that we must meet and part as strangers." "MARGARET CAPEL." CHAPTER XVI. Que es la vida? Un frenesi; Que es la vida? Una ilusion, Una sombra, una ficcion, Y el mayor bien es pequeño. Que toda la vida es sueño, Y los sueños, sueño son. LA VIDA ES SUEÑO, JORN. 2. Nothing could exceed his astonishment and distress as he read this short and decided missive. He stood speechless--rooted to the ground--for a few moments unable to believe his eye-sight. He would have staked more than his life upon Margaret's constancy; and at such a time to break with him--now, when her uncle lay, perhaps, dying. There was a refinement in her cruelty. He could not comprehend a word; and stood staring in bewilderment on the paper in his hand. "I fear you have received some bad news, Mr. Haveloc?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking anxiously at him. "I have--very bad," he said. "My friend, Mr. Grey, is very ill; dangerously, I am sure. I must not lose a moment: he has summoned me. I must set out instantly." They exchanged a hurried farewell; and in another hour he was flying along the road as fast as four horses, and postilions, bribed to the utmost, could whirl his carriage. He still held in his hand the letter which had summoned him to Ashdale. He read it again and again. What could have occasioned this sudden change? He was lost in conjecture and dismay. At one moment he thought it possible that some news might have reached her of his attendance upon Aveline; and that she misinterpreted his visits into a devotion that had never swerved from herself. But he at once rejected this supposition as impossible.