Mrs. Andinnian began asking the details of the giving-up of her former home. In answering, Karl happened to mention incidentally the death of their neighbour, Mr. Turner, and his own interview with Rose. The latter's name excited Mrs. Andinnian beyond all precedent: it brought on one of those frightful fits of passion that Karl had not seen of late years. "I loathe her," she wildly said. "But for her wicked machinations, my darling son had not fallen into this dreadful fate that is worse than death. May my worst curses light upon the head of Rose Turner!" Karl did what he could to soothe the storm he had unwittingly evoked. He told his mother that she would never, in all probability, be grieved with the sight of the girl again, for she was removing to the out-of-the-world district of Cumberland. The one servant, alluded to by Karl, was a silent-mannered, capable woman of some forty years. Her mistress called her "Ann," but Karl found she was a Mrs. Hopley, a married woman. That she appeared to be really attached to her mistress, to sympathise with her in her great misfortune, and to be solicitous to render her every little service that could soothe her, Captain Andinnian saw and felt grateful for. "Where is your husband?" he one day inquired. "Hopley's out getting his living, sir," was the answer. "We have had misfortunes, sir: and when they come to people such as us, we must do the best we can to meet them. Hopley's working on his side, and me on mine." "He is not in Weymouth then?" "No, he is not in Weymouth. We are not Weymouth people, sir. I don't know much about the place. I never lived at it till I came to Mrs. Andinnian." By this, Karl presumed that his mother had brought Mrs. Hopley with her when she came herself: but he asked no further. It somewhat explained what he had rather wondered at--that his mother, usually so reticent, and more than ever so now, should have disclosed their great calamity to this woman. He thought the servant must have been already cognisant of it. "What misfortune was it of your own that you allude to?" he gently asked. "It was connected with our son, sir. I and my husband never had but him. He turned out wild. While he was quite a lad, so to say, he ruined us, and we had to break up the home." "And where is he now?" She put her check apron before her face to hide her emotion. "He is dead," was the low answer. "He died a dreadful death, sir, and I can't yet bear to talk of it. It's hardly three months ago." Karl looked at the black ribbon in her cap, at the neat black-and-white print gown she did her work in: and his heart went out to the woman's sorrow. He understood better now--she and her mistress had a grief in common. Later, he heard somewhat more of the particulars. Young Hopley, after bringing his parents to beggary, had plunged into crime; and then, to avoid being taken, had destroyed himself.