'I cannot tell you how relieved I am to get your kind letter. These dreadful days have made me ill, and one thing that increased my misery was the fear that I should never hear from you again. I should not have dared to write. How noble you are!--but then I always knew that. I cannot come tomorrow--you know why--but the next day I will be with you at three o'clock, if you don't tell me that the hour is inconvenient.' They met at the appointed time. Mrs. Carnaby's fine sense of the becoming declared itself in dark array; her voice was tenderly subdued; the pressure of her hand, the softly lingering touch of her lips, conveyed a sympathy which perfect taste would not allow to become demonstrative. Alma could at first say nothing. The faint rose upon her cheek had vanished; her eyes were heavy, and lacked their vital gleam; her mouth, no longer mobile and provocative, trembled on the verge of sobs, pathetic, childlike. She hung her head, moved with a languid, diffident step, looked smaller and slighter, a fashionable garb of woe aiding the unhappy transformation. 'I oughtn't to have given you this trouble,' said Sibyl. 'But perhaps you would rather see me here----' 'Yes--oh yes--it was much better----' 'Sit down, dear. We won't talk of wretched things, will we? If I could have been of any use to you----' 'I was so afraid you would never----' 'Oh, you know me better than that,' broke in Mrs. Carnaby, almost with cheerfulness, her countenance already throwing off the decorous shadow, like a cloak that had served its turn. 'I hope I am neither foolish nor worldly-minded.' 'Indeed, indeed not! You are goodness itself.' 'How is Mrs. Frothingham?' The question was asked with infinite delicacy, head and body bent forward, eyes floatingly averted. 'Really ill, I'm afraid. She has fainted several times--yesterday was unconscious for nearly half an hour.' Sibyl flinched. Mention of physical suffering affected her most disagreeably; she always shunned the proximity of people in ill health, and a possibility of infection struck her with panic. 'Oh, I'm so sorry. But it will pass over.' 'I hope so. I have done what I could.' 'I'm sure you have.' 'But it's so hard--when every word of comfort sounds heartless--when it's kindest to say nothing----' 'We won't talk about it, dear. You yourself--I can see what you have gone through. You must get away as soon as possible; this gloomy weather makes everything worse.' She paused, and with an air of discreet interest awaited Alma's reply. 'Yes, I hope to get away. I shall see if it's possible.' The girl's look strayed with a tired uncertainty; her hands never ceased to move and fidget; only the habits of good breeding kept her body still. 'Of course, it is too soon for you to have made plans.'