But month after month went by, and still the same suspense continued.  She did not even know if they were alive or dead.

Lodgers came and went, some pleasant, some very much the reverse; some kind, some exacting.  Jessie worked early and late at school and at home.  The school did not count for much in her life, and she made no real friends amongst the children.  Her earlier delicate training made her feel she was not one of them; their speech and manners jarred on her, and having lived most of her life with grown-ups, she had no knowledge of games, or play, nor any skill in either, and their tastes did not interest her, nor hers interest them.  She would far rather sit with Miss Patch, and talk or read to her, or be read to.  Miss Patch was teaching her some different kinds of needlework, and while Jessie worked her teacher would read to her; and those readings in that peaceful room were Jessie’s greatest delight.

Then one day, when they least expected it, came an end to it all, and all the ordinary everyday life they had lived together in that house for months past was finished by a violent knocking at the front door.  At least that was the first sign they had of the change that was impending!

Such a knocking it was! it echoed through the house, and up and down the street, making them both spring to their feet in dire alarm.  Miss Patch gave a sharp cry and her hand flew to her side.  Jessie’s face blanched, and her eyes grew dark with fear.

“Who can it be!” she gasped; “who—­what—­what can have happened?” Mrs. Lang was out, gone to the cemetery, so there was no one to answer the knock but Jessie herself, and realizing it she ran trembling down the stairs.  She had delayed only a moment, but before she reached the foot of the stairs there came another knock, longer and louder than the first.  Jessie threw herself on the door and flung it open.  A man was standing on the step, evidently trying to keep himself from making another assault on the door.  He seemed almost beside himself with excitement or fright, or something very like both.

“Where’s your mother?” he demanded impatiently.

“Out,” said Jessie shortly, something in the man’s manner increased her alarm until she could scarcely utter a word.  “She’s—­gone—­to the cemetery,” she gasped in explanation.  “I think—­she’ll be—­ home—­soon.”

The day was already waning, and the sun going down.  She looked out anxiously, longing to see her mother come into sight.  The man gave an impatient click of his tongue.

“What am I to do?” he demanded testily, gazing anxiously up and down the street, but as he seemed to be addressing only the air, or himself, Jessie did not feel obliged or able to make any suggestion.

“Look here,” he said, turning quickly round to her, “there has been an accident, and—­and I came to—­to—­break it to your mother.  I know her and your—­your father.  I lived here once, and—­and I thought it might be kind to break it to her before the police came for her.”