“Because this was not the right place or time.”

“It never is the right time for the tyrants to let their slaves confer, or to hear home-truths.”

“On the contrary, my curiosity is excited.  I want to hear Mrs. Tallboys’ views.”

“Then when will you dine with us?  Next Wednesday?”

“Thank you.  Wednesday has an evening service.”

“Ah!  I told you it was never the right time!  Then Thursday?  And you’ll trust your wife with us?”

“Oh yes, certainly.”

“It is a bargain, then?  Seven o’clock, or there will be no time.”

Julius’s attention suddenly wandered.  Was not a whisper pervading the room of a railway accident?  Was not Frank due by that night’s train?

There were still so many eager to visit the magic cave, that Julius trusted his wife would remain there sheltered from the report; Jenny Bowater was behind a stand of trees, acting orchestra; but when Terry came to the outskirts of the forest in search of other knights of the whistle, Julius laid a hand on him, and gave instructions in case any rumour should reach Rosamond to let her know how vague it was, tell her that he was going to ascertain the truth, and beg her to keep up the game and cause no alarm.

Next encountering Anne, he begged her to go to his mother and guard her from any alarm, until there was some certainty.

“Can’t we send all these people away?” she asked.

“Not yet.  We had better make no unnecessary disturbance.  There will be time enough if anything be amiss.  I am going down to Hazlitt’s Gate.”

Anne was too late.  Charlie had not outgrown the instinct of rushing to his mother with his troubles; and he was despairingly telling the report he had heard of a direful catastrophe, fatal to an unknown quantity of passengers, while she, strong and composed because he gave way, was trying to sift his intelligence.  No sooner did he hear from Anne that Julius was going to the station, than he started up to accompany him—­the best thing he could do in his present state.  Hardly, however, had he closed the door, before he returned with fresh tears in his eyes, leading in Eleonora Vivian, whom he had found leaning against the wall outside, white and still, scarce drawing her breath.

“Come,” he said; and before she knew what he was doing, she was at Mrs. Poynsett’s side.  “Here, mother,” he said, “take her.”  And he was gone.

Mrs. Poynsett stretched out her arms.  The hearts of the two women who loved Frank could not help meeting.  Eleonora sank on her knees, hiding her face on the mother’s breast, with two tender arms clasped round her.

Anne was kneeling too, but she was no longer the meek, shy stranger.  Now, in the hour of trouble, she poured forth, in a voice fervent and sweet, a prayer for protection and support for their beloved one, so that it might be well with him, whatever might be his Heavenly Father’s Will.