Harry was truly grateful; first, that her original suspicion had proved
to be unfounded; secondly, that Mrs. Basil was alive. She had contrived
to place her in a sitting posture, with her back against the heavy
arm-chair; and now she brought a carafe of water from the side-board,
and sprinkled her face and hands.

"Let me call Mary, and we will get you up to your own room as soon as
you feel equal to the effort."

Mrs. Basil's eyes had closed again. Her face was white and stiff as that
of a corpse; but she shook her head with vehemence. "The door--lock the
door!" she murmured.

Not without some hesitation, for she began to fear that her companion
was wandering in her mind, Harry obeyed her. "Get me into my chair. Oh,
why did I ever wake to weary life again!"

"What has troubled you? Can any new misfortune have happened to us?"
inquired Harry, woefully.

"To _you_--no," answered the old woman, with sudden fierceness; "to
me--yes. Do you see that letter?" She pointed to one lying beneath the
table. "Twenty years ago that would have been my death-warrant; but now
I am so used to suffer that, like the man who lived on poisons, nothing
kills. Read it--read it."

The letter was an official one; the envelope immense, with "On her
Majesty's Service" stamped upon it, and out of all proportion to the
scanty contents, which ran as follows:

"LINGMOOR PRISON, _December 22._

"MADAM,--I am instructed by the Governor of this Jail to acquaint
you with the sad news that your son, Richard Yorke, is no more.
Four weeks ago he escaped from prison by night, and took refuge in
an adjoining wood. His body was discovered only four days ago, and
an inquest held upon it, when a verdict was returned in accordance
with the facts. I am, Madam, yours obediently,

"THOMAS SPARKES (_for the Governor_).

"I am instructed to inclose a locket with miniature, which was
found upon your son on his arrival here. The rest of his property
will be forwarded by rail."

This locket contained the little picture of Harry painted by Richard
himself, and which, though he had contrived to secrete while at Cross
Key, had been taken from him at Lingmoor.

Harry's breast was agitated by conflicting emotions. To know that her
boy was safe--that there could be no murder done--gave her a sense of
intense relief, which could scarcely be called selfish. But that
reflection was but transient, and a passiona