“No; listen,” Ethel now fairly sobbed. “I've reflected a good deal over our recent talk about thought-transference, and I am sure there is much in it. Jennie and I used to think of the same things at the same time, and I am sure--I really _feel_ that something is going wrong--that she is worse. This letter was written last night and mailed this morning. I was not greatly worried till about three o'clock to-day, but since then I have been more depressed than I ever was in my life. Somehow I can't possibly conquer it. Paul, I'm afraid Jennie is going to die--she may be--be dying now, actually dying, and if she should, if she _should_--” Ethel dropped her eyes, her breast rose tumultuously, and she looked away from him. There was nothing Paul could do or say. He simply stood still and mute, a storm of pain and sympathy raging within him. Ethel seemed to understand and appreciate his silence, for she turned to him and said, more calmly: “Of course, it may be only my imagination--my overwrought fears. I'm going to try to feel more hopeful. We leave on the eight o'clock train. Mother's packing our things now. It is good of you to be so sympathetic; I knew you would be.” She turned away. With a halting step she went up the veranda steps and ascended the stairs to her mother's room. Paul was seated on the lawn in the dusk smoking a cigar, when Mrs. Tilton came out to him. “I saw you talkin' to Ethel just now,” she began. “I reckon she spoke to you about her cousin?” He nodded and regarded the old wrinkled face steadily as Mrs. Tilton continued, in a tone of resignation: “Harriet ain't told Ethel the worst of it. A telegram come about an hour by sun, but she didn't let Ethel see it. It said come on the fust train--the doctors has plumb give up. Harriet is afraid Ethel couldn't stand the trip on top of news like that, an' she won't let her know. It's goin' to be awful on the pore child. I'm actually afraid she won't be able to bear it. In all my born days I've never seen such love as them two girls had for each other.” Paul's heart sank in dismay. “Do you think, Mrs. Tilton,” he said, “that I could be of any service? To-morrow is Sunday, and I am not busy, you know. Could I help by going down with them?”