There was no letter the next morning. "Gerald must have been too late," thought Eugenia, trying to think she did not feel anxious. But the morning after that there was none either--none, at least, that she caught sight of at first. There was one with the Wareborough postmark, but it had a black seal and was addressed to her husband, and he prevented her seeing it till he knew its contents. Then he had to tell her. It was from Frank. Eugenia never knew or remembered distinctly anything more of that day, nor of several others that succeeded it. And Captain Chancellor never cared to repeat to any one the wild words of reproach which, in the first moment of agony, had escaped her. But, satisfied though he was that he had acted for the best, there were moments during those days when Beauchamp was thankful to recall the assurance which Sydney's husband had had the generous thoughtfulness to give in this letter. "Even if Eugenia had returned with my brother it would have been too late;" an assurance which Eugenia's stunned senses had failed to convey to her brain. This was the history of that day at Wareborough--the day, that is to say, of Gerald's unsuccessful errand. As soon as he was satisfied that Eugenia had been sent for, Mr Laurence became calmer. He slept at intervals during the day, and when awake seemed so much better that Sydney almost regretted the precipitancy with which she had acted on what was, perhaps, after all, only an invalid's passing fancy. But by evening she came to think differently. The nervous restlessness returned in an aggravated form. Every few minutes he asked her what o'clock it was, and she, understanding the real motive of the question, replied each time with a little addition of volunteered information. "Seven o'clock, dear papa; they _may_ be here by nine, you know;" or, "a quarter to eight; they will be about half-way if they started by the later train." Between eight and nine, to Sydney's great relief, her father fell asleep again. She dared not leave him, but sat beside him, watching his restless slumber; wearied herself, she had all but fallen asleep; too, when she was startled by his suddenly addressing her. "Sydney," he said, "tell me--Eugenia?" His voice was clear, and stronger than it had been of late, yet he seemed to find difficulty in expressing himself. A strange fear seized Sydney. "Not yet, dear father," she said, consolingly. "She has not come yet. But very soon she must be here." He looked at her earnestly, as if striving to take in the sense of her words. "No," he said, at last, "no, it will be too late." Then a smile broke over his face. "Good-bye, dear Sydney, dear child. Tell Eugenia not to grieve. It is not for long."