Though her disease was rapidly progressing, and Mrs. Rushmere was becoming daily weaker, she was still able to occupy the room below, propped up by pillows in her easy chair. The sight of all the household arrangements, and the inmates going to and fro, amused her, and often made her forgetful of the pain she was suffering. One morning while Dorothy was absent in the outer kitchen, preparing some broth, Miss Watling, who had learned the extent of Gilbert's injuries, called upon Mrs. Rushmere to condole with her on the event, and pick up any bit of gossip she could with regard to Dorothy. "Ah, my dear Mrs. Rushmere!" she cried, hurrying up to the easy chair, in which the old lady was reclining half asleep. "I am so sorry to find you sick and confined to the house. But you must not fret about Gilbert, indeed you must not. Directly I was told the dreadful news, I said to Mrs. Barford, 'Lord a' mercy, it will kill his poor mother.'" "What about Gilbert! What dreadful news?" cried Mrs. Rushmere, starting from her half conscious state, and grasping the thin bony arm of her visitor with convulsive energy. "Why, surely they must have told you that he was badly wounded in the great battle of Vittoria." "Badly wounded. A great battle. Oh, my son! my son!" and the distressed mother fell back in her chair in a swoon. At this moment, Dorothy entered with the broth for the invalid. One glance at the death pale face of Mrs. Rushmere told the whole story. She put down the basin and hurried to her assistance. "Oh, Miss Watling!" she said in a deprecating voice. "See what you have done?" "And what have I done? told the woman what she ought to have known three weeks ago." "We had been keeping it from her," said Dorothy, "because she was not strong enough to bear it." "And pray, Dorothy Chance, if a lady may be permitted to ask the question, what is the matter with her?" "She is dying," sobbed Dorothy, "of cancer in the back." "How should I know that? I am not gifted with second sight." "You know it now," said Dorothy, "and as she is coming to, it would be better for you to leave me to break the whole thing more gently to her." "Oh, of course, you are the mistress here, and I am to leave the house at your bidding. I shall do no such thing without my old friend Mrs. Rushmere turns me out." Dorothy cast a glance of mingled pity and contempt upon the speaker. Just then, Mrs. Rushmere opened her eyes, and met Dorothy's anxious sympathizing glance. "Dorothy, is he dead?" she asked in a faint voice. "No, dearest mother. Do compose yourself." "But is he mortally wounded? Tell me, tell me, the whole truth!" Dorothy sank on her knees beside the chair, and passed her arms round Mrs. Rushmere's waist, so that her head could rest upon her shoulder, while she whispered in her ear. "He lost his right arm in the battle." "And you did not tell me?" "We wished to spare you unnecessary pain, dear mother."