nd herself, looking about her at the new buildings and
changed streets, flushed and made radiant by the accelerated pace and
excitement of her beloved New York. But, oh, the slow, penetrating
rainfall, and--the cold damp clay!

She rose, making an involuntary sound which was half a moan. The long
mirror set between two windows showed her momentarily an awful young
figure, throwing up its arms. Was that Betty Vanderpoel--that?

"What does one do," she said, "when the world comes to an end? What does
one do?"

All her days she had done things--there had always been something to do.
Now there was nothing. She went suddenly to her bell and rang for her
maid. The woman answered the summons at once.

"Send word to the stable that I want Childe Harold. I do not want Mason.
I shall ride alone."

"Yes, miss," Ambleston answered, without any exterior sign of emotion.
She was too well-trained a person to express any shade of her internal
amazement. After she had transmitted the order to the proper manager she
returned and changed her mistress's costume.

She had contemplated her task, and was standing behind Miss Vanderpoel's
chair, putting the last touch to her veil, when she became conscious of
a slight stiffening of the neck which held so well the handsome head,
then the head slowly turned towards the window giving upon the front
park. Miss Vanderpoel was listening to something, listening so intently
that Ambleston felt that, for a few moments, she did not seem to
breathe. The maid's hands fell from the veil, and she began to listen
also. She had been at the service the day before. Miss Vanderpoel rose
from her chair slowly--very slowly, and took a step forward. Then she
stood still and listened again.

"Open that window, if you please," she commanded--"as if a stone image
was speaking"--Ambleston said later. The window was thrown open, and for
a few seconds they both stood still again. When Miss Vanderpoel spoke,
it was as if she had forgotten where she was, or as if she were in a
dream.

"It is the ringers," she said. "They are tolling the passing bell."

The serving woman was soft of heart, and had her feminine emotions.
There had been much talk of this thing in the servant's hall. She turned
upon Betty, and forgot all rules and training.

"Oh, miss!" she cried. "He's gone--he's gone! That good man--out of this
hard world. Oh, miss, excuse me--do!" And as she burst into wild tears,
she ran out of the room.

. .