One chilly evening after dinner, when she had retreated to the octagon parlor, and was dreaming by the fireside in the dusk alone, Jonquil, with visage white as a ghost, ushered in Mr. John Short.  He had walked over from Mitford Junction, in the absence of any vehicle to bring him on, and was jaded and depressed, though with an air of forced composure.  As Jonquil withdrew to seek his master the lawyer advanced into the firelight, and Bessie saw at once that he came on some sad errand.  Her grandfather had gone, she believed, to look after his favorite hunter, which had met with a severe sprain a week ago; but she was not sure, for he had been more and more restless for some time past, had taken to walking at unaccustomed hours, to neglecting his correspondence, leaving letters for days unopened, and betraying various other signs of a mind unsettled and disturbed.  It had appeared to Bessie that he was always in a state of distressed expectancy, but what for she had no idea.  The appearance of Mr. John Short without previous notice suggested new vexation connected with the lawsuit, but when she asked if he were again the messenger of bad news, he startled her with a much more tragical announcement.

“I am sorry to say that I am, Miss Fairfax.  Mr. Frederick has not lived much at home of late years, but I fear that it will be a terrible shock to his father to hear that he is lost,” said Mr. John Short.

“Lost!” echoed Bessie.  “Lost!  Oh where?  Poor grandpapa!”

“On the Danish coast.  His yacht was wrecked in one of the gales of last month, and all on board perished.  The washing ashore of portions of the wreck leaves no doubt of the disaster.  The consul at the nearest port communicated with the authorities in London, and the intelligence reached me some days ago in a form that left little to hope.  This morning the worst was confirmed.”

Bessie sat down feeling inexpressibly sorrowful.  “Grandpapa is out somewhere—­Jonquil is seeking him.  Oh, how I wish I could be more of a help and comfort to him!” she said, raising her eyes to the lawyer’s face.

“It is a singular thing, Miss Fairfax, but your grandfather never seems to want help or comfort like other men.  He shuts himself up and broods—­just broods—­when he is grieved or angry.  He was very genial and pleasant as a young man, but he had a disappointment of the affections that quite soured him.  I do not know that he ever made a friend of any one but his sister Dorothy.  They were on the Continent for a year after that affair, and she died in Italy.  He was a changed man when he came home, and he married a woman of good family, but nobody was, perhaps, more of a stranger to him than his own wife.  It was generally remarked.  And he seemed to care as little for her children as he did for her.  I have often been surprised to see that he was indifferent whether they came to Abbotsmead or not; yet the death of Mr. Geoffry, your father, hurt him severely, and Mr. Frederick’s will be no less a pain.”