Hal reached home before Dudley that evening, and found a foreign letter awaiting her, written in an unfamiliar handwriting, and bearing the post mark of the little village where Lorraine so obstinately remained. With an instant sense of apprehension, she tore open the envelope, and read its contents with incredulity, amazement, and anxiety struggling together in her face. Then she sat down in the nearest chair with a gasp, and stared blankly at the window, as if she could not grasp the import of the bewildering news. The letter was from Jean, partly in French, and partly in English. It informed Hal, in somewhat ambiguous phrases, that La Chère Madame was very ill, and daily growing weaker, and she, Jean, was very worried and unhappy about her. She thought if mademoiselle could possibly get away, she should come at once. It then went on to make a statement which took Hal’s breath away. “L’enfant!... l’enfant!...” she repeated in a gasping sort of undertone, and stared with bewildered eyes at the window. What could have happened?... What did it all mean? Then with a rush all the full significance seemed to come to her. Lorraine, ill and alone in that little far-away village, and this incomprehensible thing coming upon her; no one but a paid, though devoted maid to take care of her; no friend to help her in the inevitable hours of dread, and perhaps painful memories and apprehensions. All her quick, warm-hearted sympathy welled up and filled her soul. Of course she must go at once, tonight if possible, or early tomorrow. Yet as she struggled to collect her thoughts and form plans, she was conscious of a dumb, nervous cry: “What will Dudley say?... What in the world will Dudley say?” CHAPTER XLI He came in while she was still trying to compose herself for the struggle she anticipated; and because she had not yet made any headway, he saw at once that something alarming had happened. He glanced at the envelope lying on the table, then at the open letter in her hand, and then at her face. “What is the matter?... Have you had bad news?” For one dreadful moment, observing the foreign stamp, he thought something might have happened to Ethel, who was taking her month’s holiday on the Continent. When Hal looked blankly into his face, as if quite unable to tell him, he added hurriedly: “Is your letter about Ethel?... Is she ill?” “No, it is not Ethel,” Hal answered, noticing, in spite of her distress, his unconcealed anxiety. “Some one is ill, but it is not Ethel.” “Is it Lorraine?” He spoke with quiet, kindly concern now, being reassured concerning the swift dread that had sized him. “Yes,” Hal said nervously. “She is very ill. Dudley, I must go to her at once.” She got up as if she could not bear the strain seated, and moved away to the window. “It’s all rather terrible,” speaking hurriedly; “but don’t... don’t... be upset about it. I can’t bear it. I _must_ go, whatever you say, and I want you to help me.”