“What is it, Miss Verbèna?” inquired Mrs. Greyne, with a kindly English accent, calculated to set any poor French creature quite at ease. Mademoiselle Verbèna trembled more. “I have received bad news, madame.” “I grieve to hear it. Of what nature?” “Mamma has _une bronchite très grave_.” “A what, Miss Verbèna?” “Pardon, madame. A very grave bronchitis. She cries for me.” “Indeed!” “The doctors say she will die.” “This is very sad.” The Levantine wept. Even Suez Canal folk are not proof against all human sympathy. Mr. Greyne blew his nose beside the fire, and Mrs. Greyne said again: “I repeat that this is very sad.” “Madame, if I do not go to mamma to-morrow I shall not see her more.” Mrs. Greyne looked very grave. “Oh!” she remarked. She thought profoundly for a moment, and then added: “Indeed!” “It is true, madame.” Suddenly Mademoiselle Verbèna flung herself down on the Persian carpet at Mrs. Greyne’s large but well-proportioned feet, and, bathing them with her tears, cried in a heartrending manner: “Madame will let me go! madame will permit me to fly to poor mamma—to close her dying eyes—to kiss once again⸺” Mr. Greyne was visibly affected, and even Mrs. Greyne seemed somewhat put about, for she moved her feet rather hastily out of reach of the dependant’s emotion, and made her scramble up. “Where is your poor mother?” “In Paris, madame. In the Rue St. Honoré, where I was born. Oh, if she should die there! If she should⸺” Mrs. Greyne raised her hand, commanding silence. “You wish to go there?” “If madame permits.” “When?” “To-morrow, madame.” “To-morrow? This is decidedly abrupt.” “_Mais la bronchite, madame_, she is abrupt, and death, she may be abrupt.” “True. One moment!” There was an instant’s silence for Mrs. Greyne to let loose her brain in. She did so, then said: “You have my permission. Go to-morrow, but return as soon as possible. I do not wish Adolphus to lose his still uncertain grasp upon the irregular verbs.” In a flood of grateful tears Mademoiselle Verbèna retired to make her preparations. On the morrow she was gone. The morrow was a day of much perplexity, much bustle and excitement for Mr. Greyne and the valet, Darrell. They were preparing for Algiers. In the morning, at an early hour, Mr. Greyne set forth in the barouche with Mrs. Greyne to purchase African necessaries: a small but well-supplied medicine chest, a pith helmet, a white-and-green umbrella, a Baedeker, a couple of Smith & Wesson Springfield revolvers with a due amount of cartridges, a dozen of Merrin’s exercise-books—on mature reflection Mrs. Greyne thought that two would hardly contain a sufficient amount of African frailty for her present purpose—a packet of lead pencils, some bottles of a remedy for seasickness, a silver flask for cognac, and various other trifles such as travellers in distant continents require.