The children were again lively and happy over their round game; the sober, kind governess--about whom Mrs. Blencarrow had already concluded in her own mind that she could secure at least the happiness of the little ones if their mother were forced to leave them--was seated with them, even enjoying the fun, as it is a blessed dispensation of Providence that such good souls often do. Emmy was the only one who was out of it; she was in her favourite corner with a book, and always a watchful glance at her mother. Emmy, with that instinct of the heart which stood her in place of knowledge, had a perception, she could not have told how, of the pause in her mother’s soul. She would do nothing to disturb that pause. She sat praying mutely that it might last, that it might be peace coming back. Naturally Emmy, even with all her instinct, did not know the terrible barrier that stood between her mother and peace. And thus they all sat, apparently in full enjoyment of the sweet household quiet, which by moments was so noisy and full of commotion, the mother seated with the screen between her and the great blazing fire, the children round the table, Emmy with her book. Mrs. Blencarrow’s eyes dwelt upon them with the tenderest, the most pathetic of smiles. ‘She looked on sea, and hill, and shore, As she might never see them more,’ with a throb of tragic wonder rising in her heart how she could ever have thought that this was not enough for her--her children, and her home, and this perfect peace. It was already late and near their bedtime when the fly from the station drove up to the door. Mrs. Blencarrow did not hear until some minutes after Emmy had raised her head to listen, and then for a moment longer she would not hear it, persuading herself that it was the wind rising among the trees. When at last it was unmistakable, and the great hall door was heard to open, and even--or so she thought in the sudden shiver of agitation that seized her--a breath of icy wind came in, sweeping through the house, she was for the moment paralyzed with dismay and fear. She said something to hurry the children to bed, to bid them go--go! But she was inaudible even to herself, and did not attempt, nor could indeed form any further thought on any subject, except horror of the catastrophe which she felt to be approaching in this moment of peace. If it had but waited till to-morrow! Till an hour later, when she should have been alone! Motionless, holding by her chair, not even hearing the wondering question, ‘Who can be coming so late?’ Mrs. Blencarrow, with wide-open eyes fixed on the door, and her under-lip dropping in mortal anguish, awaited her fate.