"He has been a month in London, and it evidently has been quite too much for him. He has always led such a very quiet life that the rush and excitement and fatigue of it up there has told upon him. I noticed how grey and drawn his face was when he returned yesterday. I said to my husband that it was a pity his daughter had not brought him home before. Of course, she would have done so, poor girl, if she had known the harm town life was doing him, but he doted on her, and you know how thoughtless young people are when they are enjoying themselves; they don't realise that the old cannot keep pace with them." Sidney heard all this as in a dream. She did not take it in. Dr. Lanyard, an old friend of the family, raised his eyebrows, but the Major burst forth excitedly, and it was the only time he ever let his feelings get the better of him: "It's all our doing! Oh, why was I such a fool as to give way about it! His guns were cleared away. It was the last straw! I found him clinging to one. I told Ethel it was a cruel thing to do. I'll never lift up my head again!" A choke came into his voice, and he hurried out of the room. The doctor turned and followed him. Sidney crept back to her father's room. She would not leave it. The blow had been so sudden, so unexpected, that she could not realise it was true. She knew that her father had not been strong, but he had seemed so much brighter and more active in town that she had had no anxieties about his health, and had never known that his heart was at all weak. The news spread fast. That afternoon Monica came to the house. One of the old servants begged her to go upstairs to Sidney. "She's just breaking her heart, ma'am. You may be able to get her to have some food. We've got her out of the room at last, but she's in her own room, and won't come out of it." Monica went up with a heavy heart. She realised that no earthly comfort could ease Sidney's pain, and in a strange way the words of the parable which Chuckles was so fond of repeating to her came into her mind: "The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house." "'Twill be a terrible loss to Miss Urquhart," the old servant said, as she followed her along the corridor to Sidney's bedroom. "Things have all been turned upside down lately, and I for one don't wish our dear master back. The new mistress has served him shamefully—and I gave her notice this morning." Monica hardly heard the muttered words; her thoughts were with the storm-tossed one. "I wonder," she murmured to herself, as she tapped gently at Sidney's door; "I wonder if the house still stands?" Monica gained an entrance. Sidney was sitting by the window, which was open, her Bible was upon the broad ledge before her, and she was gazing out, the tears fast dropping down her cheeks as she did so. She clung to Monica when she kissed her.