Agnes seized her sister by the shoulders with a grasp which was almost fierce. “You shall not now,” she cried, “you shall not now! you shall think of him for once--not Letitia, but good Frogmore’s son--dear Frogmore’s son. Oh, my boy, my boy!” She let her sister go, and fell back covering her face with her hands. And Mary sank trembling into her chair. But she made no remonstrance or reply. She did not say anything but cried a little quietly under the cover of the evening. She was moved, if with nothing else, at least with the profound emotion of her companion. That Agnes should calm herself after this outburst and beg Mary’s pardon humbly, and do all that in her lay to appear cheerful for the rest of the evening, it is almost unnecessary to say. She was filled with compunction and tenderness towards the unfortunate mother who knew nothing of maternity. Why should she try to excite and arouse Mary now? Arouse her only to bereavement, to know the misery of loss? Oh, no, no! Agnes said to herself. If he must die, let not the light of life go out for Mary too; it was enough that, for herself, that bitter anguish must be. She started very early in the morning, and arrived at the Park while still it was high day. Letitia was out. Mrs. Parke had given up her feverish watch since that day when the doctor had bidden her write to the boy’s mother. She had discovered that her health was suffering from confinement, and that a little air and change of scene was necessary, as there was really no need for her and she could do nothing for Mar. She drove about with an eager eye upon the property, observing and deciding what must be done, when all was over, when everything was in their own hands. She went to Westgate, and planned where the new cottages were to be. “Your father has been tied down in every way,” she said to Letty; “he has not been able to carry out his own plans. But now, alas, in all probability that period is over, and he will be able to act for himself----” “Oh, mamma, what do you mean?” Letty had cried. “It is very easy to tell what I mean: poor Mar--though it is dreadful to think of it--it will make a wonderful difference to your father, Letty, when the poor boy is mercifully released----” “Do you mean,” cried Letty, her eyes full of tears and horror, “when Mar, dear Mar, dies----? Is that the dreadful, dreadful thing that you mean, mamma?” “My saying it will not make him die a moment sooner, but we must be prepared. That is what is coming, alas! However grieved we may be, that is no reason for shutting our eyes.” “Mamma! do you think it? Do you really believe it? I know he is very ill--but there is a long way between that and--dying. Oh,” said Letty, with a shudder, “I cannot, cannot bear it. I will not think it, I will not believe it. What is the good of doctors and nurses, and of all the new things that have been found out, if Mar must die.”