“She ought to be, but ought often stands for nothing.  It cost thee a goodish bit when thou hedn’t much to count on.”

“Not so much, mother—­some paint and paper and yards of creton.”

“And new white curtains ’upstairs and downstairs and in my lady’s chamber.’  Add to that men’s and women’s wage; and add to that, the love that could neither be bought nor sold.”

“She is worth it all many times over.”

“Happen she may be.  Her aunt has had a heartbreaking lesson.  She may say a few words to unsay words that she never should have spoken.”

“I shall be thinking of Martha all day.  I hope she will keep her confidence.”

“What art thou talking about?  Martha will do herself no injustice.  It isn’t likely.  What is the matter with thee, John?  Thou art as down-hearted as if all had gone wrong instead of right.  O thou of little faith!”

“I know and I am sorry and ashamed, mother.”

The next morning John had a charming letter from Jane.  Martha had done wonderfully.  She had played her part to perfection and there were only exclamations of delight at the airy, fairy cleverness of her conceptions of mimic royalty.  Jane said the illustrated papers had all taken Martha’s picture, and in fact the May Day Dream had been an unqualified, delightful success.  “And the praise is all given to Martha, John.  I shall have her likeness taken today as she appeared surrounded by her ladies.  We shall surely see you at home on Friday.”

John was so immensely proud of this news, that he went up the hill earlier than usual in order to give it to his mother.  And her attitude disappointed him.  She was singularly indifferent, he thought, and answered his excited narrative by a fervent wish that they “were safely back at Hatton.”  He wondered a little but let the circumstance pass.  “She has been worried about some household misdoing,” he thought, and he tried during their dinner together to lead her back to her usual homely, frank cheerfulness.  He only very partially succeeded, so he lit a cigar and lay down on the sofa to smoke it.  And as his mother knit she lifted her eyes occasionally and they were full of anxious pity.  She knew not why, and yet in her soul there was a dark, swelling sorrow which would not for any adjuration of Scripture nor any imploration of prayer, be stilled.

“I wonder what it is,” she whispered.  “I wonder if Jane——­” then there was a violent knocking at the front door, and she started to her feet, uttering as she did so the word, “Now!” She knew instinctively, whatever the trouble was, it was standing at her threshold, and she took a candle in her hand and went to meet it face to face.  It was a stranger on a big horse with a telegram.  He offered it to Mrs. Hatton, but John had quickly followed his mother and he took it from her and read its appalling message: 

     Come quickly!  Martha is very, very ill!