r there will be no time."

Julius's attention suddenly wandered. Was not a whisper pervading
the room of a railway accident? Was not Frank due by that night's
train?

There were still so many eager to visit the magic cave, that Julius
trusted his wife would remain there sheltered from the report; Jenny
Bowater was behind a stand of trees, acting orchestra; but when
Terry came to the outskirts of the forest in search of other knights
of the whistle, Julius laid a hand on him, and gave instructions in
case any rumour should reach Rosamond to let her know how vague it
was, tell her that he was going to ascertain the truth, and beg her
to keep up the game and cause no alarm.

Next encountering Anne, he begged her to go to his mother and guard
her from any alarm, until there was some certainty.

"Can't we send all these people away?" she asked.

"Not yet. We had better make no unnecessary disturbance. There
will be time enough if anything be amiss. I am going down to
Hazlitt's Gate."

Anne was too late. Charlie had not outgrown the instinct of rushing
to his mother with his troubles; and he was despairingly telling the
report he had heard of a direful catastrophe, fatal to an unknown
quantity of passengers, while she, strong and composed because he
gave way, was trying to sift his intelligence. No sooner did he
hear from Anne that Julius was going to the station, than he started
up to accompany him--the best thing he could do in his present
state. Hardly, however, had he closed the door, before he returned
with fresh tears in his eyes, leading in Eleonora Vivian, whom he
had found leaning against the wall outside, white and still, scarce
drawing her breath.

"Come," he said; and before she knew what he was doing, she was at
Mrs. Poynsett's side. "Here, mother," he said, "take her." And he
was gone.

Mrs. Poynsett stretched out her arms. The hearts of the two women
who loved Frank could not help meeting. Eleonora sank on her knees,
hiding her face on the mother's breast, with two tender arms clasped
round her.

Anne was kneeling too, but she was no longer the meek, shy stranger.
Now, in the hour of trouble, she poured forth, in a voice fervent
and sweet, a prayer for protection and support for their beloved
one, so that it might be well with him, whatever might be his
Heavenly Father's Will.

As she paused, Mrs. Poynsett, in a choked voice, said, "Thank you,
dear child;" when there were steps in the