"Will you be kind enough to ring, Charles? Twice, please. It is for Hatch." I did so, and returned to my seat. Hatch appeared in answer to her signal. Annabel held the cup of tea she had poured out. "Mamma's tea, Hatch." "She won't take none, miss." It is impossible to resist the temptation of now and then giving the grammar and idioms Hatch had brought from her country home, and had never since attempted to alter or improve. But what Hatch lacked in accuracy she made up in fluency, for a greater talker never flourished under the sun. "If you could get her to drink a cup, it might do her good," pursued Hatch's young mistress. "Take it up, and try." Hatch flirted round, giving me full view of her black streamers, and brought forward a small silver waiter. "But 'twon't be of no manner of use, Miss Annabel." "And here's some toast, Hatch," cried I. "Toast, sir! Missis wouldn't look at it. I might as well offer her a piece of Ingy-rubbins to eat. Miss Annabel knows----" "The tea will be cold, Hatch; take it at once," interposed Miss Annabel. "Annabel, who is attending your mamma? Mr. Close, I suppose." "Mr. Close. She never will have anyone else. I fear mamma must have been ill for some time; but I have been so much away with Aunt Lucy that I never noticed it before." "Ay; Hastings and your aunt will miss you. I suppose Mrs. Brightman will not spare you now as she has hitherto done." Annabel bent her head over the tea-tray, and a burning colour dyed her face. What had my words contained to call up the emotion? Presently she suddenly rose and left the room, saying she must see whether the tea had been taken. She returned with the empty cup, looking somewhat more cheerful. "See, Charles, mamma _has_ taken it: I do believe she would take more nourishment, if Hatch would only press it upon her. She is so very weak and depressed." Annabel filled the cup again, and Hatch came in for it. "Suppose you were to take up a little toast as well; mamma might eat it," suggested Annabel, placing the cup on the waiter. "Oh, well, not to contrairy you, Miss Annabel," returned Hatch. "I know what use it will be, though." She held out the waiter, and I was putting the small plate of toast upon it, when screams arose from the floor above. Loud, piercing screams; screams of fear or terror; and I felt sure that they came from Mrs. Brightman. Hatch dropped the waiter on to the table, upsetting the tea, and dashed out of the room. I thought nothing less than that Mrs. Brightman was on fire, and should have been upstairs as speedily as Hatch; but Annabel darted before me, closed the drawing-room door, and stood against it to prevent my exit, her arms clasping mine in the extremity of agitation, the shrieks above still sounding in our ears. "Charles, you must not go! Charles, stay here! I ask it of you in my father's name." "Annabel, are you in your senses? Your mother may be on fire! She must be on fire: do you not hear her screams?"