llowed her version of the letter as well as he could; and as
she turned the last page, he too perceived the pencilled writing, which
was not Broadstone's. This she did not offer to communicate; indeed, she
covered it at once with her hand.

"Yes, I suppose it was the shock," he said, in a low voice. "But it was
not Broadstone's fault. It was no one's fault."

Lady Lucy flushed and looked up.

"That man Barrington!" she said, vehemently. "Oh, if I had never had him
in my house!"

Oliver made no reply. He sat beside her, staring at the grass. Suddenly
Lady Lucy touched him on the knee.

"Oliver!"--her voice was gasping and difficult--"Oliver!--you had
nothing to do with that?"

"With what, mother?"

"With the _Herald_ article. I read it this morning. But I laughed at it!
John's letter arrived at the same moment--so happy, so full of plans--"

"Mother!--you don't imagine that a man in Ferrier's position can be
upset by an article in a newspaper?"

"I don't know--the _Herald_ was so important--I have heard John say so.
Oliver!"--her face worked painfully--"I know you talked with that man
that night. You didn't--"

"I didn't say anything of which I am ashamed," he said, sharply, raising
his head.

His mother looked at him in silence. Their eyes met in a flash of
strange antagonism--as though each accused the other.

A sound behind them made Lady Lucy turn round. Brown was coming over the
grass.

"A telegram, sir, for you. Your coachman stopped the boy and sent him
here."

Marsham opened it hastily. As he read it his gray and haggard face
flushed again heavily.

"Awful news just reached me. Deepest sympathy with you and
yours. Should be grateful if I might see you to-day.

"BROADSTONE."

He handed it to his mother, but Lady Lucy scarcely took in the sense of
it. When he left her to write his answer, she sat on in the July sun
which had now reached the chairs, mechanically drawing her large country
hat forward to shield her from its glare--a forlorn figure, with staring
absent eyes; every detail of her sharp slenderness, her blanched and
quivering face, the elegance of her black dress, the diamond fastening
the black lace hat-strings tied under her pointed chin--set in the full
and searching illumination of mid-day. It showed her an old
woman--left alone.

Her whole being rebelled against what had happened to her. Life without
John's letters, John's homage, John's sympathy--how was it to