the Chapel-Room and in the
presence of her late companions. The subject, unhappily, had called for
too frequent mention, by now, for any circumlocution to be incumbent in
the discussion of it. But here, in the brooding quiet of this
bedchamber, and in Lady Calmady's presence, all that was changed.
Trenchant statements of opinion, words of blame, were proscribed. The
sinner, if spoken of at all, must be spoken of with due reticence and
respect, his wilfulness ignored, the unloveliness of his conduct
gently, even eagerly, explained away.

And, therefore, it came about that this fair champion of much-wronged
womanhood, though fired with the zeal of righteous anger, had to go
very softly and set a watch before her lips. But as she paused, fearful
to break in too abruptly upon Lady Calmady's repose, she began to
question fearfully whether speech was, in truth, still available as a
means of communication between herself and the object of her
solicitude. For Lady Calmady lay so very still, her sweet face showed
so transparent against the rose-silk, muslin-covered pillows, that the
younger woman was shaken by a swift dread that Dr. Knott's melancholy
predictions had already found fulfilment, and that the lovely,
labour-wasted body had already let the valiant, love-wasted soul
depart.

"Cousin Katherine, dear Cousin Katherine," she called very gently,
under her breath, and then waited almost awestricken, sensible, to the
point of distress, alike of the profound quiet, which it seemed as an
act of profanity to have even assayed to break, and of the malign
activity of those little, scriptural figures anticking so wildly in the
chimney-space and on the hearth.

Seconds, to Honoria of measureless duration, elapsed before Lady
Calmady gave sign of life. At length she moved her hands, as though
gathering, with infinite tenderness, some small and helpless creature
close and warm against her bosom. Honoria's vision grew somewhat
blurred and misty. Then, with a long-drawn, fluttering sigh, Katherine
looked up at the tall, straight figure.

"Dick--ah, you've come in! My beloved--have you had good sport?" she
said.

Honoria sat down on the end of the sofa, bowing her head.

"Alas, alas, it is only me, Cousin Katherine. Nothing better than me,
Honoria St. Quentin. Would that it were some one better," and her voice
broke.

But Lady Calmady had come into full possession of herself.

"My dear, I must have been dozing, and my thought