"Will you come, Miss Lambert?" urged Richard gently. He had followed the girls, and had overheard this little speech; but Bessie did not heed him. "Will you try to be brave, Edna?" But her voice was almost inaudible. "Go with Richard, Bessie, darling; he is waiting for you." And then Bessie got into the carriage. She looked back and waved her hand as they drove away, but this time there was no smile on her face. Edna was standing on the porch, and the afternoon sun was shining on her face and hair and white dress, and her large wistful eyes were full of sadness. Bessie's lip quivered, her heart ached. How beautiful it all was! The world seemed glorified in sunshine; every one they met seemed happy, and yet Edna was wretched, and Hatty ill--perhaps dying; and a great black cloud seemed to overshadow everything, a sense of terror and confusion, of utter chaos. "In the midst of life we are in death." Why did those words come to Bessie? Just before the train moved Richard broke the silence. "You will let us hear how things are, Miss Lambert?" "Oh, yes, I will write to Edna." "And you will take care of yourself?" "Yes, thank you." "Things maybe better than you expect; one can never tell." He stopped and looked earnestly in her face, and she could see that he was very much moved. "I wish you could be spared all this, but I know you will do your best for everybody. I will not tell you now how we shall all miss you; the house will seem very empty when I go back." "You have been very good to me, Mr. Sefton; thank you for everything." "No one can help being good to you," he replied gravely. "Good-bye, God bless you!" The train moved on, and he lifted his hat and stood aside. "Oh, how kind every one is!" thought Bessie, as she leaned back wearily and closed her eyes. Was it all a dream, or was her beautiful holiday really over? Alas! the dull, aching consciousness told her too truly that it was sorrowful reality. CHAPTER XVIII. "FAREWELL, NIGHT!" The journey seemed endless to Bessie, but she restrained her painful restlessness for Tom's sake. Tom was very kind after his own fashion; he got her some tea at Paddington, and was very attentive to her comfort, and every now and then he gave utterance to a few remarks, bidding her keep up her heart like a brave little woman. "'While there is life there is hope,' you know, Bessie," he said. "I think my father takes too dark a view of the case; but then, you see, Hatty is his own child. I don't believe she is as bad as all that; depend upon it, she will take a good turn yet." "Don't let us talk about it, Tom," pleaded Bessie, with a sick, wretched feeling that Tom's boyish testimony was not very reliable. How she wished he would be silent; but in a few minutes he was back again on the same subject, with another homely axiom for Bessie's comfort.