“My dear, you must be left with us,” cried Mrs. Poynsett.  “He cannot spare you.”

“Ah! but my poor father.  He is lost without me.  And I came of age on Tuesday, and there are papers to sign.”

“What is it?” murmured Frank, watching their faces.

Mrs. Poynsett gave her the pen, saying, “You must tell him, if it is to be.”

She wrote:  “My father takes me to London to-morrow, to meet the lawyers.”

His face fell; but he asked, “Coming back—­when?”

She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears, as she wrote:  “Sirenwood is to be put up to auction.”

“Your sister?” began Frank, and then his eye fell on her crape trimmings.  He touched her sleeve, and made a low wail.  “Oh! is every one dead?”

It was the first perception he had shown of any death, though mourning had been worn in his room.  His mother leant down to kiss him, bidding Lena tell him the truth; and she wrote: 

“I am left alone with poor papa.  Let me go—­now you can do without me.”

“Can I?” he asked, again grasping her hand.

She pointed to his mother and Anne; but he repeated, “You—­you!”

“When you are better we will see how it is to be,” she wrote.

He looked sadly wistful.  “No, I can’t now.  Something was very wrong; but it won’t come back.  By and by.  If you wouldn’t go—­”

But his voice was now more weak and weary, tired by the effort, and a little kneeling by him, allowing his tender touch, soothed him, enough to say submissively, “Good-bye, then—­I’ll come for you”—­ wherewith he faltered into slumber.

Rosamond had just seen her off in the pony carriage, and was on the way up-stairs, when she stumbled on a little council, consisting of Dr. Worth, Mr. Charnock, and Grindstone, all in the gallery.  “A widow in her twenty-second year.  Good heavens!” was the echo she heard; and Grindstone was crying and saying, “She did it for the best, and she could not do it, poor lamb, not if you killed her for it;” and Dr. Worth said, “Perhaps Lady Rosamond can.  You see, Lady Rosamond, Mrs. Grindstone, whose care I must say has been devoted, has hitherto staved off the sad question from poor young Mrs. Poynsett, until now it is no longer possible, and she is becoming so excited, that—­”

Cecil’s bell rang sharply.

“I cannot—­I cannot!  In her twenty-second year!” cried her father, wringing his hands.

Grindstone’s face was all tears and contortions; and Rosamond, recollecting her last words with poor Cecil, sprang forward, both men opening a way for her.

Cecil was sitting up in bed, very thin, but with eager eyes and flushed cheeks, as she held out her hands.  “Rosamond!  Oh!  But aren’t you afraid?”

“No, indeed, I’m always in it now,” said Rosamond, kissing her, and laying her down; “it has been everywhere.”

“Ah! then they sent him away—­Raymond?” then clutching Rosamond’s hand, and looking at her with searching eyes, “Tell me, has his mother any right!  Would you bear it if she kept you apart?”