Brooke. And then,
with a little more color in her face, she read her brother's letter over
again.

It consisted only of these words--

"DEAR SOPHY,--Don't worry yourself. The police have got it into
their wise heads that I had something to do with poor Trent's
tragic end. I dare say I shall be back soon, but I must go and hear
what they've got to say. Take care of Lesley--C. B."

"Take care of Lesley! As if _she_ wanted taking care of!" said Miss
Brooke, with sudden energy. "Sarah, go over at once to Mr. Kenyon's, and
tell Miss Lesley to come home. She can't stay _there_ while this is
going on. It isn't decent."

Sarah was rather glad to execute this order. She was of opinion that
Miss Lesley needed to be taken down a bit, and that this was the way in
which the Lord saw fit to do it. And it never occurred to Miss Brooke to
caution the woman against startling Lesley or hurting her feelings. She
had been startled certainly, and almost overcome; but she belonged to
that class of middle-aged women who think that their emotions must
necessarily be stronger than those of young people, because they are
older and understand what sorrow means, whereas the reverse is usually
the case. Besides, Miss Brooke quite underrated the warmth of Lesley's
attachment to her father, and was not prepared to see her experience
anything but shallow and commonplace regret.

So Sarah went to the house opposite and knocked at the door. She had to
knock twice before the door was opened, for the whole household was out
of joint. The maids were desperately clearing away all signs of
festivity--flowers, wedding-cake, the charming little breakfast that had
been prepared for the guests--everything that told of wedding
preparation, and had now such a ghastly look. Under Mrs. Durant's
direction the servants were endeavoring to restore to the rooms their
wonted appearance. Ethel's trunks had been piled into an empty room: she
would not want her trousseau now, poor child. The uncle from the country
was pacing up and down the deserted drawing-room; the aunt was fussing
about Ethel's dressing-room, nervously folding up articles of clothing
and putting away trifles. All the blinds were down, as if for a funeral.
And in Ethel's own room, the girl lay on her bed, white and rigid as a
corpse, with half-shut eyes that did not seem to see, and fingers so
tightly closed that the nails almost ran into her soft palms. Since she
had been laid