that
he could not at first speak. Happily his wife was here, so she heard all
at once. He is gone with mamma and papa to tell the poor sister. Alas!
though we think most of her, there are many other sufferers.

'Three, o'clock.--Albert is come back. He says Lady Lucy met them in the
hall, pale and trembling, as if she had already worked herself into an
agony of fright. She begged them to tell her at once, and stood quite
still, only now and then moaning to herself, "Oh, St. Erme! St. Erme!"
Mamma took her by the hand, and tried to speak soothingly; but she did
not seem to attend, and presently looked up, flushed and quivering,
though she had been so still before, and declared that the whole might
not have fallen; she had heard of people being dug out alive; they must
begin at once, and she would go to the spot. There is no hope, Albert
says; even if not crushed, they must have perished from the foul air,
but the poor girl has caught fast hold of the idea, and insists on going
to Coalworth at once to urge it on. They cannot prevent her, and mamma
cannot bear that she should be alone, and means to go with her. The
carriage was ordered when Albert came here! Poor thing, there was never
fonder love between a brother and sister; she hardly had a thought that
did not centre in him. It breaks my heart to think how often we have
seen them walking arm-in-arm together, and said they might be taken for
a pair of lovers.

'Five o'clock.--Annette begs me to conclude her letter. My father has
returned home, and fetched her to Coalworth, to be with my mother, and
the poor young lady (already, I fear, Countess of St. Erme), who, he
tells us, continues buoyed up by the delusion that her brother may yet
be found alive, and is calling on all around to use the utmost exertions
for his recovery. I regret that I cannot go in Annette's stead; but I
cannot leave home in mamma's absence, as poor Louisa is much affected by
Albert's peril, and in so nervous a state that she will not hear of my
quitting her for a moment. We have indeed received a lesson, that no
rank, however exalted, can protect from the strokes of Providence, or
the uncertainties of human life. But the postman calls. Adieu.

'Your affectionate sister,

'Matilda Moss.'

(The last moral sentiment, be it observed, readied Miss Martindale,
rendered illegible by scrawls of ink from Violet's hand.)

'Coalworth, August 21st.

'Dearest Violet,--Matilda told you how I was se