We did hear of her before long. The next morning a letter was handed to my uncle as we sat at breakfast. He looked hard at the address, changed countenance, and frowned very dark, but I could not read the frown. Then his face cleared a little; he opened, read, and handed the letter to me. Lady Cairnedge hoped Mr. Whichcote would excuse one who had so lately come to the neighbourhood, that, until an hour ago, she knew nothing of the position and character of the gentleman in whose house her son had, in a momentary, but, alas! not unusual aberration, sought shelter, and found generous hospitality. She apologized heartily for the unceremonious way in which she had sent for him. In her anxiety to have him home, if possible, before he should realize his awkward position in the house of a stranger, she had been inconsiderate! She left it to the judgment of his kind host whether she should herself come to fetch him, or send her carriage with the medical man who usually attended him. In either case her servants must accompany the carriage, as he would probably object to being removed. He might, however, be perfectly manageable, for he was, when himself, the gentlest creature in the world! I was in a rage. I looked up, expecting to see my uncle as indignant with the diabolical woman as I was myself. But he seemed sunk in reverie, his body present, his spirit far away. A pang shot through my heart. Could the wicked device have told already? “May I ask, uncle,” I said, and tried hard to keep my voice steady, “how you mean to answer this vile epistle?” He looked up with a wan smile, such as might have broke from Lazarus when he found himself again in his body. “I will take it to the young man,” he answered. “Please, let us go at once then, uncle! I cannot sit still.” He rose, and we went together to John's room. He was much better--sitting up in bed, and eating the breakfast Penny had carried him. “I have just had a letter from your mother, Day,” said my uncle. “Indeed!” returned John dryly. “Will you read it, and tell me what answer you would like me to return.” “Hardly like her usual writing--though there's her own strange S!” remarked John as he looked at it. “Does she always make an S like that?” asked my uncle, with something peculiar in his tone, I thought. “Always--like a snake just going to strike.” My uncle's face grew ghastly pale. He almost snatched the letter from John's hand, looked at it, gave it back to him, and, to our dismay, left the room. “What can be the matter, John?” I said, my heart sinking within me. “Go to him,” said John. I dared not. I had often seen him _like_ that before walking out into the night; but there was something in his face now which I had not seen there before. It looked as if some terrible suspicion were suddenly confirmed.