s always,
in the absence of a telephone in the old manse, telegraphing her
invitations and demands.

She tore open the dispatch with a hope that it was from Jeannette, for
she had sadly missed her letters. Jeannette, indeed, it was who had
inspired the message, but its sender was her sister. Rosalie Crofton
wired that Jeannette had been taken suddenly and violently ill while on
a visit in New York and was to be operated upon at once; that she had
begged Georgiana to come and to bring James Stuart with her; that
Rosalie herself was dreadfully frightened and prayed Georgiana not to
lose a train nor to fail to bring Stuart.

Action was never slow with the receiver of this message; it had never
been quicker than now. With one brief explanation to her father, she was
off to find Stuart. Just at the dripping hedge she met him, his face
tense with the shock it was plain he had received. At sight of her he
drew a yellow paper from his pocket.

"You've heard?" he cried.

"Yes; this very minute."

"There's only an hour to catch the ten-ten. You'll go?"

"Of course. I was coming to tell you. I'll be ready."

She turned again and ran back. There was much to do in the allotted
hour, but with the help of Mrs. Perkins she accomplished it. When she
and Stuart were in the train, sitting side by side in the ordinary coach
of the traveler who must conserve his resources, as Georgiana had
decreed, Stuart spoke the first word of comment upon the situation.

"Of course, there was nothing to do but go," he said, "after that
telegram."

"Of course not," agreed Georgiana simply.

"She was perfectly well--last week," said Stuart.

"Was she? You know I haven't seen her since they came back."

"She said she had tried every way to get you there."

"She has. I was going--when I could. You know father hasn't been as well
since they came back in September."

"I know. But she's wanted to see you. She says she can't write half so
well as she can talk."

"No. One can't."

There was silence for some time after this exchange. Stuart seemed
restless, stirred often, once got up and stood for a long time at the
rear of the car, staring back at the wet tracks slipping away behind.
When they had changed trains and were headed for New York, with their
destination only a few hours away, Stuart, again in the vestibule of the
car, looking out through the closed entrance door upon a dull landscape
passing like a misty wraith through the November