Lady Emily shook hands with Mrs. Wornock, with a clinging, almost affectionate air, and allowed herself to be led to an easy-chair near the hearth where some logs were burning, to give a semblance of cheerfulness amidst the prevailing grey of the outside world. There was a marked contrast in the lady's greeting of Suzette, to whom she vouchsafed no handshake, only the most formal salutation. The mother of an only son, whom she deems perfection, cannot easily forgive the girl who goes near to breaking his heart. "I was so surprised to hear you were at Beechhurst," said Mrs. Wornock. "I hope you bring good news--that the travellers are nearing home." Lady Emily could hardly answer for her tears. "Indeed, no," she said piteously. "My news is very bad; I could not rest at home. I thought you might have heard lately from Mr. Wornock----" "My latest letter is four months old." "Ah, then you can tell me nothing. Allan has written later. He wrote the night before they left Ujiji----" "But the news--the bad news? What was it?" "Very, very bad. They are alone now--our sons--alone among savages--in an unknown country--friendless, helpless. What is to become of them?" "But Mr. Patrington--surely he has not deserted them?" "No, no, poor fellow; he would never have deserted them. He is dead. He died of fever. The news of his death was cabled to his brother by Allan. The message came from Zanzibar; but he died on his way from the Lake to Kassongo. That was Allan's message. Died of fever on the journey to Kassongo. Allan's last letter was from Ujiji. They were all well when he wrote, and in good spirits, looking forward to the journey down the Congo; and now their leader is dead, the man who knew the country; and they are alone, helpless, and ignorant." "They are men," Suzette flashed out indignantly, her eyes sparkling with tears. "They will fight their way through difficulties like men of courage and resource. I don't think you need be frightened, Mrs. Wornock; nor you, Lady Emily." "It is very good of you to console me, Miss Vincent," replied Allan's mother; "but if you had known your mind a little better, my son need never have gone to Africa." "I am sorry you should think me so much to blame; but what would you have thought of me if I had not told Allan the truth?" "Well, you have sent him away--and he is dead, perhaps--dead in the wilderness--of fever, like poor Cecil Patrington." Suzette bowed her head, and was silent under this reproof. She could feel for the mother, and was content to bear unmerited blame. She went to the organ, and occupied herself in putting away the scattered sheets of music, with that deft neatness which, in her case, was an instinct.