Bessie smiled and said a word or two about the wild night, but she did not speak of Edna's visit to her room. Afterward she went up to prepare for her ride, but during the next hour Richard noticed she was not in her usual spirits, and questioned her kindly as to the cause of her depression. Bessie made some trifling excuse; she had slept badly, and her head ached; but in reality she could find no reason for her vague discomfort. The morning was fresh and lovely, and bore no signs of last night's storm. Whitefoot was in frisky spirits, but she found herself looking at everything with melancholy eyes, as though she were looking her last at the pleasant prospect. In vain she strove to shake off the uncanny feeling, and to answer Richard's remarks in her usual sprightly fashion. The very effort to speak brought the tears to her eyes, and she had the vexed feeling that Richard saw them and thought something was amiss, for he told her very kindly to be sure and rest herself that afternoon. Edna was in the front garden when they returned; she was standing at the gate evidently watching for them. Bessie thought she looked very pale. As Richard lifted her down Edna opened the gate. "You have had a longer ride than usual, have you not, Richard? Bessie looks very tired. Will you take off your habit, or will you go into the drawing-room? Your brother has just arrived, Bessie." "My brother? Do you mean Tom? Oh, what does he want with me? Hatty must be worse." And here Bessie's numb, unaccountable feelings quickened into life. "Oh, Edna, speak--what is it?" And then Bessie grew pale with apprehension. "Hatty is not very well," replied Edna gently; "but Mr. Tom will tell you himself." "Yes, go to him," whispered Richard; "your brother will be your best informant; don't wait to ask Edna." And Bessie needed no further bidding. Oh, she knew now what that vague presentiment meant! That was her last ride--her last everything, she told herself, as she hurried into the house. Of course, Hatty was ill, very ill--dying perhaps--she always knew she would die. Tom's boyish face looked unusually grave as he caught sight of Bessie. She walked up to him and grasped his arm. "What is it, Tom?" she said almost clinging to him. Poor Tom was hardly equal to the occasion. He was young, and hated scenes, and Mrs. Sefton was looking at them both, and he felt uncommonly choky himself; but Edna, who had followed Bessie, said promptly: "Don't be afraid of telling Bessie, Mr. Lambert; she knows that Hatty is not so well. You have come to fetch her--have you not?--because Hatty had another bad fainting fit, and your father thinks her very ill." "That is about it," blurted out Tom. "Can you get ready and come back with me, Bessie? Hatty asked for you last night for the first time, and then father said I had better come and fetch you; so I took the last train to London, and slept at Uncle George's, and came on this morning."