"Did he suffer much?" she inquires, lifting her lovely, hopeless eyes piteously to his face. "Not at the last," answers Brandon, evasively, almost under his breath. Silence for a few seconds: the cocks are still crowing, the pigeons courting, the cat purring on the window-sill: Nature is fond of these horrible contrasts. Presently she speaks again: "Why was not I sent for before?" she asks in a rough, harsh whisper. "We telegraphed for you yesterday morning, the instant that we found there was any danger," he replies, speaking very gently, but wincing a little under the reproach implied in her question. "And it did not reach me till this morning. If I had had it when I ought, I suppose I should have been in time to see him," she says, with apathy, looking away towards the misty hill. "He sent you his love," says Brandon, struggling again with that same breaking in his voice. "Dear fellow! he was quite happy!" "Was he?" she says, with the same vacant look. "I'll go to him." As she speaks, she rises and moves towards the door. "You had better not," he says hastily, laying his hand on her arm. "Why?" inquires she, looking at him with perfect calmness; "are you afraid of my fainting or going into hysterics? You need not be; it is only that I am not the least sorry that Jack is dead, and that I want to be." "It is not that," he answers, earnestly; "but--but--you know, dear, that it is a terribly infectious complaint." "Is it?" she answers, a ray of animation lighting up her haggard face. "I'm glad; perhaps God will let me catch it!" Seeing that she is resolute, he ceases trying to dissuade her. In the small dark hall, old Luath is lying on the rug; seeing Esther enter, he raises himself quickly, and goes to meet her, with heavy tail wagging and affectionate eyes, on which age is written in blue dimness. Now that the master's sister has come home, he is sure that the master cannot be far behind. He is waiting for him, waiting to walk round the farm; he has been waiting this long time, thinking that he has gone upon a journey; and so he has. But oh! Luath, it is a journey on which man may take neither horse nor dog, neither wife, nor sister, nor friend; a journey on which some man, woman, or child is setting off every minute that beats; and whence no explorers return, with maps and charts, and wondrous tales, to vaunt themselves of their exploits, and be extolled and praised as benefactors to their race. Let us hope that it is because they find that country most pleasant that they come not again. In the drawing-room a canary is shrilling his loud, sharp song: they have thrown a shawl over his cage to keep him quiet; but through the shawl the sun pierces, and the bird's keen clear jubilation goes up to meet it. How can he sing so very gaily now Jack is dead? At the room-door they pause. "Don't come in! I'd rather have him to myself, please," Esther says, in a steady whisper.