Six days ago, exactly, since he had been there before. The house looked precisely as it had looked then, all in darkness, excepting the faint light that burned from Sarah Anne's chamber. It burnt there still. Then it was lighting the living; now---- Thomas Godolphin rang the bell gently.--Does any one like to do otherwise at a house in which death is an inmate? Elizabeth, as usual, opened the door, and burst into tears when she saw who it was. "I said it would bring you back, sir!" she exclaimed. "Does Lady Sarah bear it pretty well?" he asked, as she showed him into the drawing-room. "No, sir, not over well," sobbed the girl. "I'll tell my lady that you are here." He stood over the fire, as he had done the other night: it was low now, as it had been then. Strangely still seemed the house: he could almost have told that one was lying dead in it. He listened, waiting for Ethel's step, hoping she would be the first to come to him. Elizabeth returned. "My lady says would you be so good as to walk up to her, sir?" Thomas Godolphin followed her upstairs. She made for the room to which he had been taken the former night--Sarah Anne's chamber. In point of fact, the chamber of Lady Sarah, until it was given up to Sarah Anne for her illness. Elizabeth, with soft and stealthy tread, crossed the corridor to the door, and opened it. Was she going to show him into the presence of the dead? He thought she must have mistaken Lady Sarah's orders, and he hesitated on the threshold. "Where is Miss Ethel?" he whispered. "Who, sir?" "Miss Ethel. Is she well?" The girl stared, flung the door full open, and with a great cry flew down the staircase. He looked after her in amazement. Had she gone crazy? Then he turned and walked into the room with a hesitating step. Lady Sarah was coming forward to meet him. She was convulsed with grief. He took both her hands in his with a soothing gesture, essaying a word of comfort: not of inquiry, as to why she should have brought him to this room. He glanced to the bed, expecting to see the dead upon it. But the bed was empty. And at that moment, his eyes caught something else. Seated by the fire in an invalid chair, surrounded with pillows, covered with shawls, with a wan, attenuated face, and eyes that seemed to have a glaze over them, was--_who_? _Sarah Anne?_ It certainly _was_ Sarah Anne, and in life still. For she feebly held out her hand in welcome, and the tears suddenly gushed from her eyes. "I am getting better, Mr. Godolphin." Thomas Godolphin--Thomas Godolphin--how shall I write it? For one happy minute he was utterly blind to what it could all mean: his whole mind was a chaos of wild perplexity. And then, as the dreadful truth burst upon him, he staggered against the wall, with a wailing cry of agony. It was Ethel who had died. CHAPTER XIII. UNAVAILING REGRETS. Yes. It was Ethel who had died.