“A steamer sails from Marseilles two days hence,” he announced. “We must be off to-day, immediately, to catch it. I will have a bag packed at once. Order your maid to pack your trunks, Octavia--” He paused, not comprehending the surprised stare in her ladyship’s bold black eyes. “You seem to be laboring under a mistake Sir Harold,” said Lady Wynde, coolly. “If you choose to go out to India, you can do so. George is your son and heir, and I suppose it would really look better if you were to go. But as to my hurrying by sea and land, by day and night, to witness the death of a young man I never saw, the idea is simply preposterous. My health could never endure the strain of such a fatigue. You would have two graves to make instead of one.” The lines in Sir Harold’s face contracted as in a sudden spasm. “I--I was selfish to think of your going, Octavia,” he said sorrowfully. “It is true that we should have to travel day and night to reach Marseilles in time to catch the steamer. The passage of the Red Sea would also be hard for you. But I was thinking of my poor brave boy dying there among strangers, with no woman beside him. If--if you could have gone to him, my wife, and let him feel that he was going from one mother here to another mother _there_--” “I should like to go, if only my health would permit,” sighed Lady Wynde. “But why do you not take your daughter with you?” The father shook his head. “She is so young,” he said. “She is so fond of poor George. I cannot cast so heavy a shadow over her future life as that visit to her brother’s death-bed would be. No, Octavia, I will go alone.” He arose and went out, leaving his breakfast untouched. Lady Wynde sipped her coffee leisurely, and ate her breakfast with untroubled appetite. Then she proceeded to her own private sitting-room and took her place at one of the windows, watching the whirling snow-flakes of the February storm. Sir Harold found her here when he came in, dressed for his journey. He had ordered a carriage, which was ready. His travelling bag was packed, and had been taken below. He had come in to say good-bye to his wife. “What a great change a single hour has wrought in our lives!” he said, as he came up to Lady Wynde and put his arms around her. “Octavia, my darling, it wrings my heart to leave you. Write to me by every post. I shall remain with my boy until all is over. Tell me all the home news. You will have Neva home at Easter, and love her for my sake! She will be our only child soon!” He embraced his wife with passionate affection, and murmured words of anguished farewell. He tore himself from her, but at the door he turned back, and spoke to her with a solemnity she had never seen in him before. “Octavia,” he said, “at this moment a strange presentiment comes over me--a sudden horror--a chill as of death! Perhaps I am to die out there in India! If--if anything happens to me, Octavia, promise me to be good to my Neva.”