They were sitting thus, waiting, not even venturing to look at each other, when a sudden sound startled them. Nothing more than a footstep outside approaching softly. A footstep--surely two steps. They could hear them far off in this wonderful stillness, making steady progress near--nearer. Mrs. Vincent rose up, stretching her little figure into a preternatural hysteric semblance of height. Who was it? Two people--surely women--and what women could be abroad at such an hour? One lighter, one heavier, irregular as female steps are, coming this way--this way! Her heart fluttered in the widow's ears with a sound that all but obliterated those steps which still kept advancing. Hark, sudden silence! a pause--then, oh merciful heaven, could it be true? a tinkle at the bell--a summons at the closed door. Mrs. Vincent had flown forth with open arms--with eyes blinded. The poor soul thought nothing less than that it was her child returned. They carried her back speechless, in a disappointment too cruel and bitter to have expression. Two women--one sober, sleepy, nervous, and full of trouble, unknown to either mother or son--the other with a certain dreadful inspiration in her dark face, and eyes that gleamed out of it as if they had concentrated into them all the blackness of the night. "You are going back, and so am I," Mrs. Hilyard said. "I came to say a word to you before I go away. If I have been anyhow the cause, forgive me. God knows, of all things in the world the last I dreamt of was to injure this good woman or invade her innocent house. Do you know where they have gone?--did she leave any letters?--Tell me. She shall be precious to me as my own, if I find them out." Mrs. Vincent freed herself from her son's arms, and got up with her blanched face. "My daughter--followed me--to Carlingford," she said, in broken words, with a determination which sat almost awful on her weakness. "We have had the great misfortune--to cross each other--on the way. I am going--after her--directly. I am not afraid--of my Susan. She is all safe in my son's house." The others exchanged alarmed looks, as they might have done had a child suddenly assumed the aspect of a leader. She, who could scarcely steady her trembling limbs to stand upright, faced their looks with a dumb denial of her own anguish. "It is--very unfortunate--but I am not anxious," she said, slowly, with a ghastly smile. Human nature could do no more. She sank down again on her seat, but still faced them--absolute in her self-restraint, rejecting pity. Not even tears should fall upon Susan's sweet name--not while her mother lived to defend it in life and death.