s cheeks quivered. The door at the
extreme end of the car was set wide open. Ludovic Quayle stood upon the
little, iron balcony smoking. His feet were planted far apart, yet his
tall figure swayed and curtseyed queerly as the heavy carriage bumped
and rattled across the points. High walls, overtopped by the dark
spires of cypresses, overhung by radiant wealth of lilac Wisteria, and
of roses red, yellow, and white, reeled away in the keen sunshine to
the left and right. Then, clearing the outskirts of the town, the train
roared southward across the fair, Italian landscape beneath the
pellucid, blue vault of the fair, Italian sky. And to Honoria there was
something of heartlessness in all that fair outward prospect. Here, in
Italy, the ancient gods reigned still, surely, the gods who are
careless of human woe.

"Is there bad news, Winter?" she asked.

"Mr. Bates telegraphs to the General that it would be well her ladyship
should be prepared for the worst."

"It'll kill my lady. For certain sure it will kill her! She never could
be expected to stand up against that. And just as she was getting round
from her own illness so nicely too----"

Audibly Clara wept. Her tears so affected the sandy-complexioned,
polyglot conductor that he retired into his little pantry and made a
most unholy clattering among the plates and knives and forks. Honoria
put her hand upon the sobbing woman's shoulder and drew her into the
comparative privacy of the adjoining compartment, rendered not a little
inaccessible by a multiplicity of rugs, traveling-bags, and
hand-luggage.

"Come, sit down, Clara," she said. "Have your cry out. And then pull
yourself together. Remember Lady Calmady will want just all you can do
for her if Sir Richard--if"--and Honoria was aware somehow of a sharp
catch in her throat--"if he does not live."

And, meanwhile, Roger Ormiston, now in sober and dignified middle-age,
found himself called upon to repeat that rather sinister experience of
his hot and rackety youth, and, as he put it bitterly, "act hangman to
his own sister." For, as he approached her, Katherine, leaning back
against the piled-up cushions in the corner of the railway carriage,
suddenly sat bolt-upright, stretching out her hands in swift fear and
entreaty, as in the state bedroom at Brockhurst nine-and-twenty years
ago.

"Oh, Roger, Roger!" she cried, "tell me, what is it?"

"Nothing final as yet, thank God," he answered. "But it would be cruel