[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER VOL. XX.—No. 1013.] MAY 27, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.] [Illustration: AT THE HELM.] _All rights reserved._] THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc. CHAPTER IX A WORM AT THE ROOTS. Each looked at the other, aghast. An expression as of sudden enlightenment flitted across the boyish face of Tom Black; but nobody noticed that. “That sound means some accident!” exclaimed Lucy, hurrying out of the room. Miss Latimer followed her. Mr. Somerset and young Black stayed behind, Mr. Somerset holding back little Hugh. But they only lingered for a moment. A cry from Lucy and a pungent smell of burning which saluted their nostrils set them too running downstairs. Mrs. Challoner and Miss Latimer were bending over the body of Mrs. Morison, prostrate just outside the dining-room door. A japanned tray containing knives and forks and spoons, scattered over the floor, explained the crash which had followed the heavy fall. Little Hugh shrieked, “Mrs. Morison is dead!” and began to cry. But she breathed stertorously. “She has had a fit,” Lucy said. “Working over the big fire has brought it on.” Wilfrid Somerset caught up his hat. “I know the nearest doctor’s!” he exclaimed, and, putting young Black aside, he hirpled off, self-consciousness suspended in his eager desire to be of service. “Mrs. Morison isn’t dead, dear,” Miss Latimer reassured little Hugh; “but she is very ill, and you must not interrupt us while we take care of her.” She led him into the dining-room and bade him watch at the window for the coming of Mr. Somerset and the doctor. Then she returned to Lucy. Young Black had got some water, and Lucy was dashing it on her servant’s face. But, though she struggled and writhed under the chill, it did not rouse her. “What was she bringing up these things for?” asked Lucy, looking round at the scattered cutlery. “She knew I had set out the table already.” “It’s likely there was a good deal of mental confusion before the fit came,” suggested the old governess. Tom Black stood over the prostrate figure and the kneeling ladies. It was true he had fetched the water, but otherwise he did not seem eagerly sympathetic. Suddenly he said— “There’s something on fire somewhere!” “Certainly there is,” assented Lucy, her senses regaining their power of attention. “I think it must be downstairs. I can’t move.” (She was trying to support the heavy, tossing head.) “Will you both go and see what is burning, and do your best with it?” As the old lady and the youth descended the kitchen stair he whispered to her— “That woman is tipsy.” “Oh, surely not!” Miss Latimer replied. “Mrs. Challoner has told me she is an excellent servant and a respectable person.” “She is tipsy,” he repeated. “I saw it when I came in. But I didn’t think she was quite so bad as this.”