came down to dinner like that, but I suppose
it wouldn't do."

"It wouldn't be dignified," said Norah, looking, at the moment, as
though dignity were the last thing she cared about. "Well, I suppose
I must go." She gathered up her skirts and danced out again, pausing
at the door to execute a high kick. Then she curtsied demurely to the
laughing cook-lady, and fled to her room by a back staircase.

She came down a while later, tubbed and refreshed, in a dainty blue
frock, with a black ribbon in her shining curls. The laughter had not
yet died out of her eyes; she was humming one of Jim's school songs as
she crossed the hall. Allenby was just turning from the door.

"A telegram, Miss Norah."

"Thanks, Allenby." She took it, still smiling. "I hope it isn't to
say any one is coming to-night," she said, as she carried it to the
light. "Wouldn't it be lovely if it was to tell us they had leave!"
There was no need to specify whom "they" meant. "But I'm afraid
that's too much to hope, just yet." She tore open the envelope.

There was a long silence as she stood there with the paper in her
hand: a silence that grew gradually more terrible, while her face
turned white. Over and over she read the scrawled words, as if in the
vain hope that the thing they told might yet prove only a hideous
dream from which, presently, she might wake. Then, as if very far
away, she heard the butler's shaking voice.

"Miss Norah! Is it bad news?"

"You can send the boy away," she heard herself say, as though it were
some other person speaking. "There isn't any answer. He has been
killed."

"Not Mr. Jim?" Allenby's voice was a wail.

"Yes."

She turned from him and walked into the morning-room, shutting the
door. In the grate a fire was burning; the leaping light fell on
Jim's photograph, standing on a table near. She stared at it, still
holding the telegram. Surely it was a dream--she had so often had it
before. Surely she would soon wake, and laugh at herself.

The door was flung open, and her father came in, ruddy and splashed.
She remembered afterwards the shape of a mud-splash on his sleeve. It
seemed to be curiously important.

"Norah!--what is wrong?"

She put out her hands to him then, shaking. Jim had said it was her
job to look after him, but she could not help him now. And no words
would come.

"Is it Jim?" At the agony of his voice she gave a little choking cry,
catching at him blindly. The tele