andy. But the heart is very weak. She told
Dr. Ramsay she had an attack of flu last week--temperature up to 104. But
she wouldn't give in to it--never even went to bed. Then came the
excitement of travelling down here and the night in the park. This is the
result. It makes me nervous to think that we shan't have Dr. Ramsay
to-morrow. His partner is not quite the same thing. But he is going to
London with Lord Buntingford."

"Buntingford--going to London?" said Cynthia in amazement.

Miss Alcott started. She remembered suddenly that her brother had told
her that no mention was to be made, for the present, of the visit to
London. In her fatigue and suppressed excitement she had forgotten. She
could only retrieve her indiscretion--since white lies were not practised
at the Rectory--by a hurried change of subject and by reminding her
brother it was time for them to go back to the house. They accordingly
disappeared.

"What is Buntingford going to London for?" said Georgina as they neared
their own door.

Cynthia could not imagine--especially when the state of the Rectory
patient was considered. "If she is as bad as the Alcotts say, they will
probably want to-morrow to get a deposition from her of some kind,"
remarked Georgina, facing the facts as usual. Cynthia acquiesced. But she
was not thinking of the unhappy stranger who lay, probably dying, under
the Alcotts' roof. She was suffering from a fresh personal stab. For,
clearly, Geoffrey French had not told all there was to be known; there
was some further mystery. And even the Alcotts knew more than she.
Affection and pride were both wounded anew.

But with the morning came consolation. Her maid, when she called her,
brought in the letters as usual. Among them, one in a large familiar
hand. She opened it eagerly, and it ran:--

"Saturday night, 11 p.m.

"MY DEAR CYNTHIA:--I was so sorry to find when I went to the drawing-room
just now that you had gone home. I wanted if possible to walk part of the
way with you, and to tell you a few things myself. For you are one of my
oldest friends, and I greatly value your sympathy and counsel. But the
confusion and bewilderment of the last few hours have been such--you will
understand!

"To-morrow we shall hardly meet--for I am going to London on a strange
errand! Anna--the woman that was my wife--tells me that six months after
she left me, a son was born to me, whose existence she has till now
concealed from me. I have no r