door.

Then, so swiftly that she could not formulate it, an anxiety leapt at
her, and she laid her pen down, staring. Who was this?

She went quickly to the bell and rang it; standing there waiting, with
beating heart and face suddenly gone white....

"Susan," she said, "there is an old gentleman at the gate. Go out and
see who it is.... Stop: if it is anyone for me ... if--if he gives the
name of Mr. Cathcart, ask him to be so kind as to go round the turn to
the village and wait for me.... Susan, don't say anything to
Mrs. Baxter; it may just possibly be bad news."

From behind the curtain she watched the maid go down the path, saw a
few words pass between her and the stranger, and then the maid come
back. She waited breathless.

"Yes, miss. It is a Mr. Cathcart. He said he would wait for you."

Maggie nodded.

"I will go," she said. "Remember, please do not say a word to anyone.
It may be bad news, as I said."

* * * * *

As she walked through the hamlet three minutes later, she began to
recognize that the news must be really serious; and that beneath all
her serenity she had been aware of its possibility. So intense now was
that anxiety--though perfectly formless in its details--that all other
faculties seemed absorbed into it. She could not frame any imagination
as to what it meant; she could form no plan, alternative or absolute,
as to what must be done. She was only aware that something had
happened, and that she would know the facts in a few seconds.

About fifty yards up the turning she saw the old gentleman waiting.
He was in his London clothes, silk-hatted and spatted, and made a
curiously incongruous picture there in the deep-banked lane that led
upwards to the village. On either side towered the trees, still
leafless, yet bursting with life; and overhead chattered the birds
against the tender midday sky of spring.

He lifted his hat as she came to him; but they spoke no word of
greeting.

"Tell me quickly," she said. "I am Maggie Deronnais."

He turned to walk by her side, saying nothing for a moment.

"The facts or the interpretation?" he asked in his brisk manner. "I
will just say first that I have seen him this morning."

"Oh! the facts," she said. "Quickly, please."

"Well, he is going to Mr. Morton's chambers this afternoon; he
says..."

"What?"

"One moment, please.... Oh! he is not seriously ill, as the world
counts illness. He thought he was just