Barnes, who had been standing near, now came forward, and, for the first time, Roger realised that his sisters were not alone. With a word of thanks he spoke gratefully of Mrs. Beauchamp’s kindness in sending the girls home under her care, and enquired as to her plans. "Oh, I return by the next train, sir, thank you, which leaves just after two. I’ll just have time to get a cup of tea before I start. Mrs. Beauchamp wished me to offer her sincere sympathy, sir, if I saw any of the family, and she would like to know the latest report." "Please thank her," said Roger. "My mother has been most grateful for all her kindness to my sisters." "And how is Mrs. Franklyn now, sir?" she asked. Roger turned away from the girls, who for the moment were collecting various small packages they had brought with them, and with something suspiciously like a sob in his throat, he replied, "She is sinking rapidly; she cannot live many hours." "Dear, dear. I _am_ sorry to hear that, sir!" said the woman, with real concern. "Poor, dear Miss Elsa." "Hush! Don’t let them hear. I have not said so much to them." And with a word of farewell to the maid, he bade the twins come with him. Stopping only to give a porter instructions about the luggage, he strode on, and the girls had as much as they could do to keep up with him. Fortunately, it was only a matter of a very few minutes’ walk to their home, so that they were soon there. As they entered the gate, Roger glanced furtively at the windows, for he knew his mother’s life was only just trembling in the balance, and even during the fifteen or twenty minutes that he had been absent, the call might have come. But the blinds were up, and he breathed freely. In silence they entered the old side door, and quietly, oh! so quietly, Lois came downstairs to meet them. What a different home-coming was this from the one they had been anticipating. No bright welcome, no merry words, no gay laughter. Instead of all that, there was an awful hush and unnatural quiet reigning in the busy, bustling household, and it was all owing to the fact that their mother was lying so very, very ill in the well-known room, beyond the baize-covered doors, upstairs. "I am glad you have come, dears," said Lois, gently, as she bent and kissed the twins, and Elsa saw that her face bore traces of recent tears. "Oh, Lois!" "Hush, darlings, hush!" she whispered, as she gently pushed them into the deserted dining-room; "we must not make any noise, it worries her so." "But she will get better? Oh, Lois, say she will!" cried Olive. Lois looked enquiringly at Roger; but muttering: "You tell them, Lois; I couldn’t," in hoarse tones, he strode by her, and went out, shutting the door gently behind him.