“What is it?” she asked, hurriedly. “Something has happened. Do any of you know? What is it?” She spoke breathlessly, and her eyes once more wandered with anxious inquiry over all of them. But no one spoke, for, whatever it was, they felt the news to be serious--something, in fact, which could not well be communicated by themselves. Once more Edith repeated her question, and finding that no answer was forth-coming, her impatience allowed her to wait no longer; and so, gathering up her long skirts in one hand and holding her whip in the other, she hurried into the house to see Miss Plympton. Miss Plympton's room was on the second floor, and that lady herself was seated by the window as Edith entered. In the young girl's face there was now a deeper anxiety, and seating herself near the centre-table, she looked inquiringly at Miss Plympton. The latter regarded her for some moments in silence. “Did you wish to see me, auntie dear?” said Edith. Miss Plympton sighed. “Yes,” she said, slowly; “but, my poor darling Edie, I hardly know how to say to you what I have to say. I--I--do you think you can bear to hear it, dear?” At this Edith looked more disturbed than ever; and placing her elbow on the centre-table, she leaned her cheek upon her hand, and fixed her melancholy eyes upon Miss Plympton. Her heart throbbed painfully, and the hand against which her head leaned trembled visibly. But these signs of agitation did not serve to lessen the emotion of the other; on the contrary, she seemed more distressed, and quite at a loss how to proceed. “Edith,” said she at last, “my child, you know how tenderly I love you. I have always tried to be a mother to you, and to save you from all sorrow; but now my love and care are all useless, for the sorrow has come, and I do not know any way by which I can break bad news to--to--a--a bereaved heart.” She spoke in a tremulous voice and with frequent pauses. “Bereaved!” exclaimed Edith, with white lips. “Oh, auntie! Bereaved! Is it that? Oh, tell me all. Don't keep me in suspense. Let me know the worst.” Miss Plympton looked still more troubled. “I--I--don't know what to say,” she faltered. “You mean _death_!” cried Edith, in an excited voice; “and oh! I needn't ask who. There's only one--only one. I had only one--only one--and now--he is--gone!” “Gone,” repeated Miss Plympton, mechanically, and she said no more; for in the presence of Edith's grief, and of other facts which had yet to be disclosed--facts which would reveal to this innocent girl something worse than even bereavement--words were useless, and she could find nothing to say. Her hand wandered through the folds of her dress, and at length she drew forth a black-edged letter, at which she gazed in an abstracted way.