All these past months, since she first quitted her native shores, had Mrs. Carleton St. John been travelling about the Continent. Travelling _about_; the word is put advisedly. Now hither, now thither; today in one place, tomorrow in another; ever restless, ever on the wing. France, Germany, Savoy, Switzerland: and now back on the coast of France again and intending to try Flanders and Belgium. It seemed that some power impelled her forward, forced change upon her; for no sooner had she settled down in one spot, saying she should remain in it, than she would suddenly start away for another. Her attendants wondered whether she were quite sane: but she appeared more as one labouring under the torture of a troubled spirit. It seemed like remorse. Remorse for what? Ah, none could tell. That first foolish supposition of Honour's was surely not a correct one--that the young heir, who stood in her own son's light, had owed his death to her hands! Nonsense! It was not likely. But, if so, why, how fearful a retribution had overtaken her! She must know now that she had perilled her soul for worse than nought; for the halls of Alnwick and their rich lands were passing rapidly away from her into the hands of strangers; passing away with her child's life. It was a singularly strange thing--and people talk of it yet--but George St. John never recovered that memorable birthday night. The puzzle was--_what_ had harmed him? Had he taken too much?--a fit of over-eating, of indigestion if you will, is soon cured in a child. Had he suffered a shock from fright?--_that_ was not likely to bring on the bodily ailment, the weakness, under which he now laboured. His mother had asked, asked with feverish lips and eager eyes, what could be the matter with him. No one could answer her then; he would soon get well, they supposed. She knew--it must be that she knew--all too surely now. George St. John was in a decline--the same disease that had killed his father.