nley to Miss Tempest:

"Come home by the next boat. Your mother is ill, and anxious to see
you. The carriage will meet you at Southampton."

Poor Vixen looked at her lover with a conscience-stricken countenance.

"Oh, Rorie, and I have been so wickedly, wildly happy!" she cried, as
if it were a crime to have so rejoiced. "And I made so light of mamma's
last letter, in which she complained of being ill. I hardly gave it a
thought."

"I don't suppose there is anything very wrong," said Rorie, in a
comforting tone, after he had studied those few bold words in the
telegram, trying to squeeze the utmost meaning out of the brief
sentence. "You see, Captain Winstanley does not say that your mother is
dangerously ill, or even very ill; he only says ill. That might mean
something quite insignificant--hay-fever or neuralgia, or a nervous
headache."

"But he tells me to go home--he who hates me, and was so glad to get me
out of the house."

"It is your mother who summons you home, no doubt. She is mistress in
her own house, of course."

"You would not say that if you knew Captain Winstanley."

They were alone together on the gravel walk, Miss Skipwith having
retired to make tea in her dingy parlour. It had dawned upon her that
this visitor of Miss Tempest's was no common friend; and she had
judiciously left the lovers together. "Poor misguided child!" she
murmured to herself pityingly; "just as she was developing a vocation
for serious things! But perhaps if is all for the best. I doubt if she
would ever have had breadth of mind to grapple with the great problems
of natural religion."

"Isn't it dreadful?" said Vixen, walking up and down with the telegram
in her hand. "I shall have to endure hours of suspense before I can
know how my poor mother is. There is no boat till to-morrow morning.
It's no use talking, Rorie." Mr. Vawdrey was following her up and down
the walk affectionately, but not saying a word. "I feel convinced that
mamma must be seriously ill; I should not be sent for unless it were
so. In all her letters there has not been a word about my going home. I
was not wanted."

"But, dearest love, you know that your mother is apt to think seriously
of trifles."

"Rorie, you told me an hour ago that she was looking ill when last you
saw her."

Roderick looked at his watch.

"There is one thing I might do," he said, musingly. "Has Miss Skipwith
a horse and trap?"

"Not the least in the world."

"That