r face had not so much as the faintest tinge of hectic,
but was utterly colourless--worse, it was wan, ghastly. A distressing
sight to look upon, was she, as she stood there; she and the festal
attire were so completely at variance. She came forward, before the
servants could recover from their astonishment.

"Where's Richard?" she asked, speaking in a low, subdued tone, as if
fearing to be heard--though there was nobody in the house to hear her,
save Lucy Tempest. And probably it was from her wish to avoid all
attention to her proceeding, that caused her to come down stealthily to
the servants, instead of ringing for them.

"Richard is not come back, ma'am," answered Catherine. "We have just
been saying that he'll most likely stop up there with the Hall servants
until my lady returns."

"Not back!" echoed Sibylla. "Cook, you must go out for me," she
imperiously added, after a moment's pause. "Go to Dean's and order one
of their flys here directly. Wait, and come back with it."

The cook, a simple sort of young woman, save in her own special
department, did not demur, or appear to question in the least the
expediency of the order. Catherine questioned it very much indeed; but
while she hesitated what to do, whether to stop the cook, or to venture
on a remonstrance to Mrs. Verner, or to appeal to Miss Tempest to do it,
the cook was gone. Servants are not particular in country places, and
the girl went straight out as she was, not staying to put anything on.

Sibylla appeared to be shivering. She took up her place right in front
of the fire, holding out her hands to the blaze. Her teeth chattered,
her whole frame trembled.

"The fire in my dressing-room went out," she remarked. "Take care that
you make up a large one by the time I return."

"You'll never go, ma'am!" cried old Catherine, breaking through her
reserve. "You are not strong enough."

"Mind your own business," sharply retorted Sibylla. "Do you think I
don't know my own feelings, whether I am strong, or whether I am not? I
am as strong as you."

Catherine dared no more. Sibylla cowered over the fire, her head turned
sideways as she glanced on the table.

"What's that?" she suddenly cried, pointing to the contents of a jug.

"It's beer, ma'am," answered Catherine. "That stupid girl drew as much
as if Richard and Therese had been at home. Maybe Therese will be in yet
for supper."

"Give me a glass of it. I am thirsty."

Again old Catherine hesitate