If her plans had been frustrated by one of the annoying little _contretemps_ of daily life, Sylvia would have exhausted herself in lamentations and repinings, but she was dumb before this great catastrophe, which came so obviously from a higher Hand. When her father lay dying, there was no regret in her heart for a lost amusement, but this hurried departure might mean more--much more than the forfeiture of Esmeralda's hospitality. She stretched out her hand, and smoothed the satin folds with a very tender touch. "Good-bye!" she whispered softly, in the silence of the room. "Good- bye, Jack!" CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOO LATE. Sylvia's journey was quiet and uneventful, and her companion was tactfully silent, leaving her at peace to think her own thoughts. As time passed by, the natural hopefulness of youth reasserted itself, and she began to think that she had been too hasty in taking it for granted that her father was hopelessly ill. After all he had not despatched the telegram; it had been signed by his friends, the Nisbets, who, no doubt, were unwilling to accept a position of responsibility. When she arrived she would nurse him so devotedly, would surround him with such an atmosphere of love and care, that he could not help recovering and growing strong once more. He would be longing to see her, poor dear old dad, working himself into an invalid's nervous dread lest they might never meet again, as she herself had done a few months earlier, and the sight of his child would be his best medicine. They left the train and took their places in the boat. It was a cloudless summer afternoon, and the white cliffs stood out in striking contrast to the blue sky and sea. What a change from the big grey city which even now was beginning to grow close and dusty, what a glorious open prospect for one who had been shut up for months in the confines of a narrow street, and yet Rutland Road had been far more beautiful to one voyager at least, for at that moment, exactly at that moment, as timed by the little watch at her wrist, Jack O'Shaughnessy would have turned the corner of the main road to saunter towards his own home. Jack always sauntered, with the air of a gentleman at large who had never known the necessity of hurry. Sylvia had watched him many times from the shelter of her window curtains, and knew exactly how he would carry his head, and twirl his stick, and glance rapidly across the road as he unlatched the gate. Pixie would open the door and breathlessly unfold the news with which she had by this time been made acquainted, and how would Jack look then? Would the smile fade away, would he feel as if all zest and interest had departed from the evening entertainment, or would he make the best of things in happy O'Shaughnessy fashion and console himself in Mollie's smiles?