Accordingly, in the height of her excitement and anxiety, believing that any moment the poor fugitive might be brought home, the widow, in her unflinching martyrdom, once more put on her bonnet, and drew out her black ribbon into bows of matchless neatness. Though she wrung her poor hands in speechless anguish as she went out of the room, it was with composed, though colourless lips, that she spoke to the little maid in the hall. "Mr. Vincent may come home any time to-day," said the widow; "you must have some lunch ready, and tea; perhaps his sister may be with him--or--or she may come alone. Any one who comes is to be taken up-stairs. I will not be long gone; and I am going to Mrs. Tufton's, if anybody should want me----" At this moment a knock came to the door--a hurried single knock, always alarming, and sounding like an evil omen. Mrs. Vincent's voice failed her at that sound--most likely her face went into convulsive twitches, for the maid stood staring at her, too much startled to open the door, until a wild gesture from the speechless woman, who was herself unable to move, her breath almost forsaking her, and coming in sobs, recalled the girl to her senses. The door was opened, and Mrs. Vincent stood with burning eyes gazing out. Ah, not Susan! never Susan!--a little, stout, rustic figure, all weary and dishevelled, looking ashamed, frightened, almost disreputable in utter forlornness and unhappiness. Mrs. Vincent gave a great sob to get breath, and dropped upon the chair, and held out her hand to Mary. She had forgotten Mary--forgotten her momentary comfort in the fact that Susan's flight was not alone. Now was it life or death the girl was bringing? She drew the frightened creature near, close, and shrieked, as she thought, her question in her ear. "What? what?" said Mrs. Vincent in her own mind; but no sound came to Mary's ears. "O missis dear, missis dear!" sobbed the girl. "I've been and told Mr. Arthur exact where she is--he's gone to fetch her home. O missis, don't take on! they'll soon be here. Miss Susan's living, she ain't dead. O missis, missis, she ain't dead--it might be worse nor it is." At these words Mrs. Vincent roused herself up once more. "My daughter has been ill," she said in gasps, turning a dreadful look upon the servant of the house. Then she rose, took hold of Mary's arm, and went up-stairs with her, holding her fast. She shut the door with her own hands when they got back to the lonely parlour full of daylight and silence. "Miss Susan has been ill?" she said once more with parched lips, looking again, with that full blank gaze which seemed to deny and defy any other answer, in Mary's frightened face. "O missis, don't take on!" sobbed the terrified girl. "No, oh no, no, that is impossible. I can't take on, Mary, if I would--oh no, not now," said the poor widow, with what seemed a momentary wandering of her strained senses. "Tell me all-- I am ready to hear it all."