“Dear Miss Wilkins, I’m afraid it is painful enough, but you are fancying it worse than it is.  All your friends are quite well; but an old servant—­”

“Well!” she said, seeing his hesitation, and leaning forwards and griping at his arm.

“Is taken up on a charge of manslaughter or murder.  Oh!  Mrs. Forbes, come here!”

For Ellinor had fainted, falling forwards on the arm she had held.  When she came round she was lying half undressed on her bed; they were giving her tea in spoonfuls.

“I must get up,” she moaned.  “I must go home.”

“You must lie still,” said Mrs. Forbes, firmly.

“You don’t know.  I must go home,” she repeated; and she tried to sit up, but fell back helpless.  Then she did not speak, but lay and thought.  “Will you bring me some meat?” she whispered.  “And some wine?” They brought her meat and wine; she ate, though she was choking.  “Now, please, bring me my letters, and leave me alone; and after that I should like to speak to Canon Livingstone.  Don’t let him go, please.  I won’t be long—­half an hour, I think.  Only let me be alone.”

There was a hurried feverish sharpness in her tone that made Mrs. Forbes very anxious, but she judged it best to comply with her requests.

The letters were brought, the lights were arranged so that she could read them lying on her bed; and they left her.  Then she got up and stood on her feet, dizzy enough, her arms clasped at the top of her head, her eyes dilated and staring as if looking at some great horror.  But after a few minutes she sat down suddenly, and began to read.  Letters were evidently missing.  Some had been sent by an opportunity that had been delayed on the journey, and had not yet arrived in Rome.  Others had been despatched by the post, but the severe weather, the unusual snow, had, in those days, before the railway was made between Lyons and Marseilles, put a stop to many a traveller’s plans, and had rendered the transmission of the mail extremely uncertain; so, much of that intelligence which Miss Monro had evidently considered as certain to be known to Ellinor was entirely matter of conjecture, and could only be guessed at from what was told in these letters.  One was from Mr. Johnson, one from Mr. Brown, one from Miss Monro; of course the last mentioned was the first read.  She spoke of the shock of the discovery of Mr. Dunster’s body, found in the cutting of the new line of railroad from Hamley to the nearest railway station; the body so hastily buried long ago, in its clothes, by which it was now recognised—­a recognition confirmed by one or two more personal and indestructible things, such as his watch and seal with his initials; of the shock to everyone, the Osbaldistones in particular, on the further discovery of a fleam or horse-lancet, having the name of Abraham Dixon engraved on the handle; how Dixon had gone on Mr. Osbaldistone’s business to a horse-fair in Ireland some weeks before this, and had had his leg broken by a kick from an unruly mare, so that he was barely able to move about when the officers of justice went to apprehend him in Tralee.