the amount of pale sunshine which is meted
out to those happy people who are wise enough to live within easy reach
of the river? Yes, I know, some people do say that Chelsea is foggy.

It depends so much on their lives. No place could be foggy to me that
day. My fear was that Nannie should read the news in my face. I looked
away when she said, "Anything in the paper?" as she had said a hundred
times before. She always came to see me eat my breakfast, so she said,
but I knew it was really to hear the news. I handed her the paper,
although I hated to let the words out of my sight, and she glanced at
it. She paused and walked to the window. Kind Nannie, she was giving me
time. She blew her nose, she was crying, she knew. A double knock at the
door brought my heart to a standstill. Lady Mary was right, he did care.
It seemed hours before the telegram was brought to me. I hardly dared
to open it. There is some happiness too great to bear. I opened it and
read:--

Sara very ill. Come at once.

DIANA

"Nannie," I said, "I am going to Hames."

"To-day?" she said. She knew it was my day of days.

"I must, Nannie. Will you come?"

"No; I'll stay here. Poor Mrs. David, whatever will she do?"

I could hardly imagine, and I am glad to remember that my sorrow seemed
a small thing compared to hers.

It would be impossible for me to describe that journey. The train crept
along. It seemed to stop hours at the station. No one seemed to remember
that Sara was ill. I felt the grip of a cold hand on my heart. Should
I ever arrive? I did at last, and found a groom waiting for me at the
station, with a dogcart. His mouth twitched, and he could hardly control
his voice to tell me that there was no fresh news. The carriages were
wanted for the doctors; did I mind the dogcart? Mind? I could have urged
the horse to a gallop, and yet I dreaded to arrive.

It was strange to pass through the quiet, deserted hall, up the stairs,
and to hear no sound. A nurse opened a door and spoke in a whisper. I
went into the room, and not until I saw Diana, so lovely in her grief,
did I realize the agony of her suffering. She put out her hand and
silently pressed mine. I turned away so that she should not see my face.

A man, a stranger to me, sat by the bedside, his eyes fixed on the child
lying there. He was the great London doctor, in whom I could see all
hope was centered. There were other doctors and nurses, I believe, but
it all seemed c