“No--no--I’ve no reason to suppose it is. It’s from my managing clerk. He says: ‘Something requiring your instant attention. Fear bad----’ No--no--no reason in the world to suppose that D’yell has anything to do with it. I must just hurry away. I’m called upon often, you know,” he added with a sickly explanatory smile, “on urgent--personal affairs.” “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “we know that well; and no better or kinder counsellor. But you have had no breakfast----” “I must not stop a moment longer--there is just time for the early train.” The girls caught their hats from the stand in the hall and ran down with him, Alice speeding on in front like a greyhound to bid the station-master keep back the train for a minute--a kindly arrangement which often was made for the convenience of Yalton. Mr. Wedderburn gave forth a few breathless instructions to Susie as he hurried along. “If I were you I would send over for Fred. He should be at home in the circumstances: and don’t let your mother be troubled.” “But, dear Mr. Wedderburn, what are the circumstances?” said Susie. “Is there anything wrong with papa?” “I hope not, my dear, I hope not. I’ve no reason to think that there is anything wrong: but just--I would have Fred at home as early as possible. And if I hear anything in town, I’ll send you word directly. And you may calculate on seeing me before dinner. Then we’ll know what to think.” “I hope papa will be home before then: and he’ll laugh at us cardiatically.” “Susie, my dear--there’s no such word.” “Oh yes, Mr. Wedderburn, for cardiac means from the heart; and that’s the only way it will go.” He turned round upon her, and smiled with the strangest mixture of fatherly kindness and pity and sorrow. Susie was silenced by this strange look. Her eyes were startled with a sudden anxious question, her soft lips dropped apart with fear and wonder. “Oh, why are you so sorry for me, Mr. Wedderburn?” she cried. But they were just arriving at the railway, and the train was waiting. Susie, with her young sister clinging to her arm, both a little breathless with their run, in their light morning dresses and careless garden hats, the rose of morning health and brightness in their soft, shaded faces, the morning sun shining upon them and round them, distinguishing them upon the rustic platform by the soft little shadow they threw, was a sight the good lawyer never forgot. “The innocent things!” he said to himself.