The winter day closed in and Bertha, interested in the novel she was reading, was surprised to hear the clock strike five. She wondered that Edward had not yet come in, and ringing for tea and the lamps, had the curtains drawn. He could not now be long. “I wonder if he’s had another fall,” she said, with a smile. “He really ought to give up hunting, he’s getting too fat.” She decided to wait no longer, but poured out her tea and arranged herself so that she could get at the scones and see comfortably to read. Then she heard a carriage drive up. Who could it be? “What bores these people are to call at this time!” As the bell was rung, Bertha put down her book to receive the visitor. But no one was shown in; there was a confused sound of voices without. Could something have happened to Edward after all? She sprang to her feet and walked half across the room. She heard an unknown voice in the hall. “Where shall we take it?” _It._ What was _it_--a corpse? Bertha felt a coldness travel through all her body, she put her hand on a chair, so that she might steady herself if she felt faint. The door was opened slowly by Arthur Branderton, and he closed it quickly behind him. “I’m awfully sorry, but there’s been an accident. Edward is rather hurt.” She looked at him, growing pale, but found nothing to answer. “You must nerve yourself, Bertha. I’m afraid he’s very bad. You’d better sit down.” He hesitated, and she turned to him with sudden anger. “If he’s dead, why don’t you tell me?” “I’m awfully sorry. We did all we could. He fell at the same post and rail fence as the other day. I think he must have lost his nerve. I was close by him, I saw him rush at it blindly, and then pull just as the horse was rising. They came down with a crash.” “Is he dead?” “Yes.” Bertha did not feel faint. She was a little horrified at the clearness with which she was able to understand Arthur Branderton. She seemed to feel nothing at all. The young man looked at her as if he expected that she would weep or swoon. “Would you like me to send my wife to you?” “No, thanks.” Bertha understood quite well that her husband was dead, but the news seemed to make no impression upon her. She heard it unmoved, as though it referred to a stranger. She found herself wondering what young Branderton thought of her unconcern. “Won’t you sit down,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. “Shall I get you some brandy?” “I’m all right, thanks. You need not trouble about me--Where is he?” “I told them to take him upstairs. Shall I send Ramsay’s assistant to you? He’s here.” “No,” she said, in a low voice. “I want nothing. Have they taken him up already?” “Yes, but I don’t think you ought to go to him. It will upset you dreadfully.” “I’ll go to my room. Do you mind if I leave you? I should prefer to be alone.”