"I am waiting, dear, until you can listen to me," returned her friend, soothingly. "My cousin Moritz was with me when the telegram came"--here Waveney started--"and I thought--we both thought--that the best thing would be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace. Moritz went with me. We saw your father, and I went up to Mollie. It is diphtheria--no one knows how she has caught it. She is ill, and her throat is very painful, but she could speak to me. She sent her love, and said that you must not think of coming to her." Then an incredulous smile crossed Waveney's face. "Mollie said that, but of course she did not mean it; the idea is too absurd. If I were not so miserable I could laugh at it. Not go to my Mollie when she is ill and in pain! Has father sent for Dr. Duncan, and have they given her a fire?--the room is so cold!" Then, interrupting herself with sudden impatience, "Why do I stop to ask these questions when it is getting late? Oh, Miss Harford, you ought to have told me before dinner! What does that matter? But I will get ready now. And if you will be kind enough to send for a cab, I shall not be five minutes changing my frock"--for even at the supreme moment some instinct told the girl that sapphire blue velveteen was not quite suitable for a sick room. Althea was quite shaken by Waveney's impetuosity. It was evident that her young companion had entirely forgotten her _rôle_; her sole idea was that Mollie was ill, and that nothing else mattered. She was actually half-way to the door when Althea called her back in a tone that arrested even her attention. "Waveney, my poor child, what are you doing? Did you not understand the telegram? Your father will not allow you to go home--he told me so himself; and here is a note he has sent you." Then Waveney, without a word, took the letter. "MY PRECIOUS CHILD," wrote Everard, "we are in sad trouble. Our dear Mollie is very ill, but Dr. Duncan tells me that it will not be safe for you to be with her, and that he must have a properly trained nurse--one is coming in directly--and then she will have every care and attention. Do not come unless I send for you; it is enough to have one child ill, and I will not have you here, my little Waveney. I know I can trust you. Since you were a baby you have never given me a moment's uneasiness--you have been my dear, good child, who has always obeyed my least wishes. If you love me, my darling, you will be brave and calm. Miss Harford will tell you everything. She is a good, kind creature, and I feel you will be safe with her. You shall know everything: nothing shall be kept from you--I promise you that faithfully. "Your loving "FATHER." * * * * * When Waveney had finished the letter, there was despair in her eyes.