The respectable servant showed her opinion of Mrs. Sowler plainly in her face. She replied as briefly and as ungraciously as possible:--“No.” “Man or woman?” was the next question. “Am I to answer this person, ma’am?” said the servant, looking at Mrs. Farnaby. “Answer me instantly,” Mrs. Sowler interposed--“in Mrs. Farnaby’s own interests. Don’t you see she can’t speak to you herself?” “Well, then,” said the servant, “it was a man.” “A man with a squint?” “Yes.” “Which way did he go?” “Towards the square.” Mrs. Sowler tossed the letter on the table, and hurried out of the room. The servant approached Mrs. Farnaby. “You haven’t opened your letter yet, ma’am,” she said. “No,” said Mrs. Farnaby vacantly, “I haven’t opened it yet.” “I’m afraid it’s bad news, ma’am?” “Yes. I think it’s bad news.” “Is there anything I can do for you?” “No, thank you. Yes; one thing. Open my letter for me, please.” It was a strange request to make. The servant wondered, and obeyed. She was a kind-hearted woman; she really felt for the poor lady. But the familiar household devil, whose name is Curiosity, and whose opportunities are innumerable, prompted her next words when she had taken the letter out of the envelope:--“Shall I read it to you, ma’am?” “No. Put it down on the table, please. I’ll ring when I want you.” The mother was alone--alone, with her death-warrant waiting for her on the table. The clock downstairs struck the half hour after ten. She moved, for the first time since she had received the letter. Once more she went to the window, and looked out. It was only for a moment. She turned away again, with a sudden contempt for herself. “What a fool I am!” she said--and took up the open letter. She looked at it, and put it down again. “Why should I read it,” she asked herself, “when I know what is in it, without reading?” Some framed woodcuts from the illustrated newspapers were hung on the walls. One of them represented a scene of rescue from shipwreck. A mother embracing her daughter, saved by the lifeboat, was among the foreground groups. The print was entitled, “The Mercy of Providence.” Mrs. Farnaby looked at it with a moment’s steady attention. “Providence has its favourites,” she said; “I am not one of them.” After thinking a little, she went into her bedroom, and took two papers out of her dressing-case. They were medical prescriptions.