“John,” she said, “go and ask Sir Roland if he will come with us.”

I saw the man’s face flush crimson, but he went away and returned in a few minutes, saying that his master was not in.

My mother repeated the words in some wonder.

“Have you seen papa this morning, Laura?”

“No; Emma brought my breakfast to me.”

“I have not seen him either,” she said.  “He has not been to say good-morning to me yet.  John, leave word that when Sir Roland comes in we shall be on the grass plot near the sun-dial!”

Why did they all look at us with such scared faces, with such wondering eyes?  And I felt sure that I heard one say to the other: 

“I have sent for the rector.”

We went—­as unconscious of the doom that hung over us as two children—­went my mother’s rounds.  She looked at all the flowers, but turned to me once or twice and said, uneasily: 

“I wonder where Sir Roland is?  It seems strange not to have seen him.”

We talked about him.  There was nothing she liked more than speaking of him to me.  We were out, I should think, at least three hours, and then my mother felt faint, and we went back.

The good rector met us and shook hands very kindly with us, but he was pale and agitated, not like himself in the least.  Patience was there, and Emma; the other servants were huddled in groups, and I knew something very terrible had happened—­something—­but what?

The rector said Lady Tayne was tired, and must have some wine.  My mother took it, and was placed upon her couch once more.  She turned to the footman and asked if my father had returned.  The answer was—­no.  Then the rector said he wished to speak to her alone.  He held a letter in his hands, and his face was as pale as death.  She looked up at him and said, quickly: 

“Is it bad news?”

“Yes,” he answered, gravely; “it is very bad news.  Laura, go away and leave your mother with me.”

But my mother clung to me.

“No, if I have anything to suffer,” she cried, “let Laura stay with me—­I can bear anything with her.”

“Let me stay?” I asked.

He covered his face with his hands, and was silent for some minutes.  I wonder if he was praying Heaven to give him strength—­he had to give my mother her death blow.  I can never remember how he told her—­in what language or fashion—­but we gathered the sense of it at last; my father had left home, and had taken Miss Reinhart with him!

The blow had fallen—­the worst had come.  Oh, Heaven! if, sleeping or waking, I could ever forget my mother’s face—­if I could close my eyes without seeing its white, stony horror!  The very tone of her voice was changed.

“Doctor Dalkeith!” she asked, “is this horrible thing true—­true?”

“Unhappily, Lady Tayne,” he replied.

“You say that my husband, Sir Roland has left me, and has gone away—­with—­this person?”