"_Yew aw the enny, Oi em ther bee,
Oi'd like ter sip ther enny from those red lips yew see_."

That was so loaded with the memory of one of the happiest days of my
life (the day I went with Martin to see the _Scotia_) that, in the
yearning of the motherhood still unborn in me, I felt as if I should
like to gather the whole screaming houseful of happy children to my
breast.

But oh why, why, why, does not Providence warn us when we are on the
edge of tragic things?

The pantomime rehearsal being over I was hurrying home (for the evening
was cold, though I was so warm within) when I became aware of a number
of newsmen who were flying up from the direction of the Strand, crying
their papers at the top of their voice.

I did not usually listen to such people, but I was compelled to do so
now, for they were all around me.

"_Paper--third e'shen--loss of the Sco-sha_."

The cry fell on me like a thunderbolt. An indescribable terror seized
me. I felt paralysed and stood dead still. People were buying copies of
the papers, and at first I made a feeble effort to do the same. But my
voice was faint; the newsman did not hear me and he went flying past.

"_Paper--third e'shen--reported loss of the Sco-sha_."

After that I dared not ask for a paper. Literally I dared not. I dared
not know the truth. I dared not see the dreadful fact in print.

So I began to hurry home. But as I passed through the streets, stunned,
stupefied, perspiring, feeling as if I were running away from some
malignant curse, the newsmen seemed to be pursuing me, for they were
darting out from every street.

"_Paper--third e'shen--loss of the Sco-sha_."

Faster and faster I hurried along. But the awful cry was always ringing
in my ears, behind, before, and on either side.

When I reached our boarding-house my limbs could scarcely support me. I
had hardly strength enough to pull the bell. And before our young waiter
had opened the door two news men, crossing the square, were crying:

"_Paper--third edition--reported loss of the 'Scotia.'_"

EIGHTY-THIRD CHAPTER

As I passed through the hall the old colonel and the old clergyman were
standing by the dining-room door. They were talking excitedly, and while
I was going upstairs, panting hard and holding on by the handrail, I
heard part of their conversation.

"Scotia was the name of the South Pole ship, wasn't it?"

"Certainly it was. We must send young John out for a paper."