"I cannot tell you," she had said to him, drawing him aside for a moment--"I cannot tell you how much I have been thinking lately of that beautiful young wife of yours, Captain Chancellor. I was very nearly writing to her when I heard of her--her disappointment, but I feared it might seem intrusive. Will you tell her so? And whenever she feels equal to it, I do hope you will bring her to spend a few quiet days with me. You must be very good to her--you will forgive an old woman's impertinence?--you must be _very_ good to her. No doubt you are, but I doubt if even the best of husbands can _quite_ enter into her sorrow. It is not to be expected they should, perhaps. And following so quickly on her father's death too! Ah, yes, it was very sad! And she has no mother! Give her my messages, and tell her of my sympathy, and be very patient with her, even if her grief seems exaggerated. There, now, I have kept up my character as a meddlesome old woman, have I not?" But Beauchamp felt by no means offended. The interest was too evidently genuine, the sympathy too womanly for the words to annoy. And then the speaker was Lady Hereward! Captain Chancellor thought over what she had said, and was all the better for it. No one was to be seen in Eugenia's sitting-room when he reached home on Saturday afternoon. "She must be out," he thought; and the sound of Mrs Eyrecourt's voice as he passed an open window confirmed his supposition. He was hastening out to join them by the door opening from his own "den" on to the sort of terrace below, when a letter, addressed to him in Eugenia's handwriting, placed conspicuously on the mantelpiece, caught his eye. In another moment he had opened and read it. His bright complexion turned to a grey pallor; a look of wild distress replaced the expression of smiling indifference habitual to him; all the nerve and spring seemed to melt out of his bearing; for "she has gone out of her mind," was the first thought that occurred to him--"grief has driven her insane," as Lady Hereward's words returned to his mind. "Good heavens! and this note is dated Thursday! What may not have happened by now?" Then his sister's voice, gay and careless as usual, again reached his ear. "Gertrude must know it. What is she thinking of? What is the meaning of it all?" A sort of giddiness came over him. He had to sit down for a moment to prevent himself falling. Then he went forward to the window from which steps led to the walk below, and called to Mrs Eyrecourt. "Gertrude," he said, "come here at once. I want you." Full of her own grievances, which the sight of her brother recalled freshly to her mind, Mrs Eyrecourt hardly relished the authoritative summons. She came up the steps slowly, calling to her dog, whose company she much preferred to that of her daughter.