“Oh, Letitia,” she cried, in her misery, “and have you nothing to blame yourself with in that? Is your conscience clear? Don’t you remember, as we all do--as we all did--for most of them are gone?” she cried, wringing her hands. Letitia looked at her, opening her eyes wide, then gave her daughter a glance of appeal, and shook her head. “Poor thing!” she said. “Poor Agnes, it has been too much for her. This dreadful mental weakness is in the family. Tell one of the men, Letty, to get ready to take her to the station. My poor Agnes, rest here a little and Thomas shall take you to the train.” Agnes said not a word more. She turned and hastened away, almost running to get into the shelter of her cab before the storm of wretchedness and fierce indignation, which she could scarcely keep silent so long, should burst forth. And now she was about to triumph in her wickedness, this cruel terrible woman! The stars in their courses fought for her. Mar’s innocent young life, and Mary’s reason, and all the misery that had been, were but steps in her advancement. And now she had all but reached the climax of her life. CHAPTER XLIII. Agnes got home so late that she did not see Mary that evening. And next day there was not very much conversation between them. Lady Frogmore could see by her sister’s looks that she had not very cheerful news to give. She said with a sort of new-born timidity, “I hope things are better than you thought,” to which Agnes made no reply but by shaking her head. It rained that day. One of those soft, long-continued summer rains which pour down from morning to night without any hope of change, refreshing and restoring everything that had begun to droop in the too fervid sun, but shutting the doors of the house against the all-pervading moisture, and making all rambles impossible. Few things are more depressing to a heart already deeply weighted than this persistent rain. The grey of the sky, the patter on the leaves, the monotony of the long hours increases every burden. Even in the happiest circumstances the prisoners indoors long for something to happen, for somebody to come. And it may be believed that to Agnes in the fever of her anxiety every hour seemed a year long. This night or to-morrow might be the decisive time. The secrets of life or death were in those slowly passing moments, the balance slowly moving to one side or another. She went through all her so-called duties, the little domestic things she had to do, the little nothings that seemed, oh, so unimportant, so futile, in face of the great thing that was about to be decided. She asked herself how she could endure to do them, to order the little dinner, to superintend the little economies while Mar lay dying. But had she been with Mar what could she have done? Sat and looked on in the most desperate suspense, still able to do nothing for him, to do nothing for anybody, to wait only till the end should come.