. . .

Rosalie had been sitting in the morning room. She also had striven to
occupy herself with work. She had written to her mother, she had read,
she had embroidered, and then read again. What was Betty doing--what was
she thinking now? She laid her book down in her lap, and covering her
face with her hands, breathed a desperate little prayer. That life
should be pain and emptiness to herself, seemed somehow natural since
she had married Nigel--but pain and emptiness for Betty--No! No! No! Not
for Betty! Piteous sorrow poured upon her like a flood. She did not know
how the time passed. She sat, huddled together in her chair, with hidden
face. She could not bear to look at the rain and ghost mist out of
doors. Oh, if her mother were only here, and she might speak to her! And
as her loving tears broke forth afresh, she heard the door open.

"If you please, my lady--I beg your pardon, my lady," as she started and
uncovered her face.

"What is it, Jennings?"

The figure at the door was that of the serious, elderly butler, and he
wore a respectfully grave air.

"As your ladyship is sitting in this room, we thought it likely you
would not hear, the windows being closed, and we felt sure, my lady,
that you would wish to know----"

Lady Anstruthers' hands shook as they clung to the arms of her chair.

"To know----" she faltered. "Hear what?"

"The passing bell is tolling, my lady. It has just begun. It is for
Lord Mount Dunstan. There's not a dry eye downstairs, your ladyship, not
one."

He opened the windows, and she stood up. Jennings quietly left the room.
The slow, heavy knell struck ponderously on the damp air, and she stood
and shivered.

A moment or two later she turned, because it seemed as if she must.

Betty, in her riding habit, was standing motionless against the door,
her wonderful eyes still as death, gazing at her, gazing in an awful,
simple silence.

Oh, what was the use of being afraid to speak at such a time as this?
In one moment Rosy was kneeling at her feet, clinging about her knees,
kissing her hands, the very cloth of her habit, and sobbing aloud.

"Oh, my darling--my love--my own Betty! I don't know--and I won't
ask--but speak to me--speak just a word--my dearest dear!"

Betty raised her up and drew her within the room, closing the door
behind them.

"Kind little Rosy," she said. "I came to speak--because we two love each
other. You need not ask, I will tell you. That bell is tollin