When Agnes went upstairs after this genial but interrupted meal she was met by her sister’s maid, who begged her to go at once to Lady Frogmore. “My lady’s very restless,” said the attendant, who was something more than a maid, the same who had brought her home after her recovery. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong?” said Agnes, breathless, for notwithstanding the tranquillity of so many years, any trifle was enough to arouse her anxieties. “Oh, I hope not,” said the maid. This was enough, it need not be said, to send Miss Hill trembling to her sister’s side. Mary was lying very quietly in bed, with some boxes on the table beside her, and a miniature of her husband, which she always carried about with her, in her hands. “You wanted me, Mary?” “No,” said Lady Frogmore, gently; then, after a pause--“Yes: I hope you will not be disappointed, dear Agnes, I think I must go home.” “Home! but we came for Duke’s party.” “I know; but I do not think I can remain any longer. Perhaps if you were to stay----” “I will not stay if you go, Mary.” “I thought Letitia would not mind so much if one of us was here. I can’t stay, I can’t,” said Mary, with a little sudden burst of tears. “Don’t ask me. My head goes round and round----” “No, indeed,” said her sister; “no one shall ask you. I feared it might be too much; and then the tent was so hot this afternoon.” “The tent?” said Lady Frogmore, with a bewildered look. “I am not thinking of any tent. It is that the place is strange. I can’t look him in the face, Agnes. Look! don’t you think he is changed? He seems to reproach me.” She held the miniature out to her sister. “And I don’t know what for,” she cried, weeping. “If I knew what it was for I could do better. But I can’t tell, I can’t tell.” After a minute she dried her eyes and looked at her sister again with a faint smile. “Don’t look so frightened, Agnes, as if you thought I was--silly, or something. No, I know it’s only a picture. I don’t mean the miniature has changed; but when I see his face in my heart he always seems to reproach me. What have I done? Oh, if I only knew what I had done!” “Dear Mary,” said Agnes, “don’t trouble your mind with imaginations. It is all fancy. Do you think Frogmore, who was so fond of you, would trouble your poor innocent soul with a reproach? Oh no, oh no.” “I think so, too,” said Mary, “but sometimes there comes a terror over me as if I have neglected something or forgotten something. If he sees us, Agnes, he must know I never meant it! He must know I never meant it! People can’t grow less understanding but more understanding when they die.” “Surely,” said Agnes, “don’t you remember, dear, in ‘In Memoriam’--with larger, other eyes than ours?” “It must be so,” said Mary, holding her sister’s hand. “But I have such a dreadful feeling as if I had done something wrong.” “No, no, my dear; no, my poor dear.”