The shadow upon the Parsonage had become actual distress—deep, poignant, all-absorbing distress. The two little ladies still looked mutely at each other, while this thing that had come upon them began to take actual shape. First there had been the vague anxiety for Eileen and Jack—then the loss of their old friend the General—then the bitter news that The Ghan House must be given up; and it seemed for the time that their cup of trouble was full. And yet the worst was still to come. But it is necessary first to go back and review the events of the weary week that has dragged past since the flowers were laid upon the new-made grave in the little churchyard. There had been many consultations, and many tears, and much pain, ere it was finally decided the good doctor’s offer must indeed be accepted, and early in the new year the mother and her daughters must start for London in order that Paddy might begin her studies at once. Meanwhile, Jack had been absent a great deal in Newry, and had returned always with a deeply thoughtful expression, and moved about in the preoccupied manner of one having some project weighing heavily upon his mind. One evening he had come in quickly and gone straight to his room without saying a word to anyone, and he had not come down again, though Miss Jane had gone upstairs and begged him to come and have some supper, or let her carry it to his room for him. “I couldn’t eat anything to-night, auntie,” he had answered, “but I am quite well. Please don’t worry about me,” and poor Miss Jane had gone back to the dining-room with tears in her eyes, wondering what had happened to make their boy shut himself away even from them. “Perhaps he has seen Eileen,” little Miss Mary suggested. “I know he went across to The Ghan House, and as Mrs Adair is laid up, and Paddy had to go to Newry, there would be only Eileen about.” And little Mary was right. Jack had seen Eileen. He had had his first uninterrupted talk with her since her father died. He had found her sitting alone over the library fire, leaning back with a tired, wasted look on her face, and a closed book on her knee. “May I stay!” he asked her, and she had mutely acquiesced, and he had closed the door, with a strange throbbing in his heart. “Won’t you sit down!” she said, and he had shaken his head without speaking, and remained standing with his back to the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece, where he could watch her face the better. He could see that she was looking ill, and the sight smote him. He realised that, perhaps, she was suffering even more than the others. Indeed, it was so, if possible, for in her longing for her father, her heart would turn and turn piteously to Lawrence, and only feel the greater desolation. Yet no word or sign escaped her. Only that frail, wasted expression grew on her face, and the unchanging sadness deepened in her eyes.