her Stephen (who is now the head of the family)
received a telegram three days since, informing him that alarming
symptoms had declared themselves, and that a second physician had been
called in. He telegraphed back to say that he had left Ireland for
London, on his way to Venice, and to direct that any further message
might be sent to his hotel. The reply came in a second telegram. It
announced that Lord Montbarry was in a state of insensibility, and
that, in his brief intervals of consciousness, he recognised nobody.
My brother was advised to wait in London for later information. The
third telegram is now in your hands. That is all I know, up to the
present time.'

Happening to look at the courier's wife, Mr. Troy was struck by the
expression of blank fear which showed itself in the woman's face.

'Mrs. Ferrari,' he said, 'have you heard what Mr. Westwick has just
told me?'

'Every word of it, sir.'

'Have you any questions to ask?'

'No, sir.'

'You seem to be alarmed,' the lawyer persisted. 'Is it still about
your husband?'

'I shall never see my husband again, sir. I have thought so all along,
as you know. I feel sure of it now.'

'Sure of it, after what you have just heard?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Can you tell me why?'

'No, sir. It's a feeling I have. I can't tell why.'

'Oh, a feeling?' Mr. Troy repeated, in a tone of compassionate
contempt. 'When it comes to feelings, my good soul--!' He left the
sentence unfinished, and rose to take his leave of Mr. Westwick. The
truth is, he began to feel puzzled himself, and he did not choose to
let Mrs. Ferrari see it. 'Accept the expression of my sympathy, sir,'
he said to Mr. Westwick politely. 'I wish you good evening.'

Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door. 'I have
heard of your trouble, Emily, from Miss Lockwood. Is there anything I
can do to help you?'

'Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I had better go home after what has
happened? I will call to-morrow, and see if I can be of any use to
Miss Agnes. I am very sorry for her.' She stole away, with her formal
curtsey, her noiseless step, and her obstinate resolution to take the
gloomiest view of her husband's case.

Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little
drawing-room. There was nothing to keep him in the house, and yet he
lingered in it. It was something to be even near Agnes--to see the
things belonging to her that were scattered about the room. There, in
the c