Mrs. Sandford felt, with that exquisite fellow-feeling which is like divination, almost before Susie did, the development of a new affection in Susie’s soul. And she leaned back in her chair between happiness and sadness, pleased to see her girl ‘respected like the lave,’ though already conscious of the desolation that desirable and good thing would bring with it--asking herself, almost with amusement, Which would it be? It was a mood more soft than was at all usual with her, and, notwithstanding the darkness that must come with the fulfilment of those dreams, it was a happy mood. That her mild Susie should have, not one but two suitors flattered and amused her. Which would it be? Mr. Cattley, in his mild, middle age, or Percy, the young priest, who had never intended to yield to the weakness of love-making? This was the subject of Mrs. Sandford’s thoughts: and other matters more painful, if any painful matters were at that moment within the possibilities of her life, had floated away like clouds from the languid sweetness of the afternoon sky. There was something, however, in the sound of the hurried step she heard approaching which roused her. It rang along the unoccupied passages, quick, eager, hurried, yet with a little stumble of weakness in it, as of excitement gone too far, and losing hold of itself. She listened, and instantly sat upright in her chair, and put Susie’s letter away under a bundle of papers. It was perhaps something very bad brought into the accident ward, or the man in No. 4 had been taken with another attack, or---- Then something made her start a little. ‘It is his step,’ she said to herself: and _he_ was John, the boy as she always called him in her heart. He pushed open the door without knocking, and saying hurriedly, ‘May I come in,’ came in without waiting for permission. Her experienced eye saw at once that he had received a great shock. Either in body or mind he had been shaken violently. His hair hung in damp masses on his forehead. He was without colour, save when in speaking he suddenly reddened and then was pale again. A touch of personal disarrangement made this agitation of his appearance more remarkable. His tie had got loose, and he had not perceived it. Such a simple matter of external appearance seems to set a seal upon the profoundest commotions of life. She cried out, ‘What is the matter?’ before he could speak a word. Then, starting suddenly with that instinctive alarm which moves us for those we love, added quickly, ‘Susie! You have had some bad news.’ ‘Not of Susie,’ he said, in a breathless way. ‘Mother, I have come for you. Come with me instantly, for God’s sake!’ ‘What is the matter, John? I can’t go out like this, you know. I have to make arrangements. What is it?--for heaven’s sake tell me what it is.’ ‘I may never in my life ask such a thing from you again. Most likely I shall never want it. If you have any feeling for me, for God’s sake come with me. To me it is life or death.’