“Join us at lunch, doctor, and you can observe him at your leisure.”

“Thank you, madam.  What seems the matter with Mr. Brudenell?”

“A general failure without any particular disease.  If it were not that I know better, I would say that something lay heavily upon his mind.”

“Humph! a second case of that kind to-day!  Well, madam, I will join you at two o’clock,” said the doctor, as he trotted off towards the negro quarters.

Punctually at the hour the doctor presented himself at the luncheon table of Mrs. Brudenell.  There were present Mrs. Brudenell, her two daughters, her son, and a tall, dark, distinguished looking man, whom the lady named as Colonel Mervin.

The conversation, enlivened by a bottle of fine champagne, flowed briskly and cheerfully around the table.  But through all the doctor watched Herman Brudenell.  He was indeed changed.  He looked ill, yet he ate, drank, laughed, and talked with the best there.  But when his eye met that of the doctor fixed upon him, it flashed with a threatening glance that seemed to repel scrutiny.

The doctor, to turn the attention of the lady from her son, said: 

“I was at the hut on the hill to-day.  One of those poor girls, the youngest, Nora, I think they call her, is in a bad way.  She seems to me to be sinking into a decline.”  As he said this he happened to glance at Herman Brudenell.  That gentleman’s eyes were fixed upon his with a gaze of wild alarm, but they sank as soon as noticed.

“Poor creatures! that class of people scarcely ever get enough to eat or drink, and thus so many of them die of decline brought on from insufficiency of nourishment.  I will send a bag of flour up to the hut to-morrow,” said Mrs. Brudenell complacently.

Soon after they all arose from the table.

The little doctor offered his arm to Mrs. Brudenell, and as they walked to the drawing-room he found an opportunity of saying to her: 

“It is, I think, as you surmised.  There is something on his mind.  Try to find out what it is.  That is my advice.  It is of no use to tease him with medical attendance.”

When they reached the drawing room they found the boy with the mail bag waiting for his mistress.  She quickly unlocked and distributed its contents.

“Letters for everybody except myself!  But here is a late copy of the ‘London Times’ with which I can amuse myself while you look over your epistles, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Brudenell, as she settled herself to the perusal of her paper.  She skipped the leader, read the court circular, and was deep in the column of casualties, when she suddenly cried out: 

“Good Heaven, Herman! what a catastrophe!”

“What is it, mother?”

“A collision on the London and Brighton Railway, and ever so many killed or wounded, and—­Gracious goodness!”

“What, mother?”

“Among those instantly killed are the Marquis and Marchioness of Brambleton and the Countess of Hurstmonceux!”