The whole household—­master, mistress, and servants—­appeared to have forgotten the very existence of such a being as Cytherea.  She almost wished she had not vowed to have no idle curiosity.

Half-an-hour later, the carriage drove off with the elderly gentleman, and two or three messengers left the house, speeding in various directions.  Rustics in smock-frocks began to hang about the road opposite the house, or lean against trees, looking idly at the windows and chimneys.

A tap came to Cytherea’s door.  She opened it to a young maid-servant.

‘Miss Aldclyffe wishes to see you, ma’am.’  Cytherea hastened down.

Miss Aldclyffe was standing on the hearthrug, her elbow on the mantel, her hand to her temples, her eyes on the ground; perfectly calm, but very pale.

‘Cytherea,’ she said in a whisper, ‘come here.’

Cytherea went close.

‘Something very serious has taken place,’ she said again, and then paused, with a tremulous movement of her mouth.

‘Yes,’ said Cytherea.

‘My father.  He was found dead in his bed this morning.’

‘Dead!’ echoed the younger woman.  It seemed impossible that the announcement could be true; that knowledge of so great a fact could be contained in a statement so small.

‘Yes, dead,’ murmured Miss Aldclyffe solemnly.  ’He died alone, though within a few feet of me.  The room we slept in is exactly over his own.’

Cytherea said hurriedly, ‘Do they know at what hour?’

’The doctor says it must have been between two and three o’clock this morning.’

‘Then I heard him!’

‘Heard him?’

‘Heard him die!’

‘You heard him die?  What did you hear?’

’A sound I heard once before in my life—­at the deathbed of my mother.  I could not identify it—­though I recognized it.  Then the dog howled:  you remarked it.  I did not think it worth while to tell you what I had heard a little earlier.’  She looked agonized.

‘It would have been useless,’ said Miss Aldclyffe.  ’All was over by that time.’  She addressed herself as much as Cytherea when she continued, ’Is it a Providence who sent you here at this juncture that I might not be left entirely alone?’

Till this instant Miss Aldclyffe had forgotten the reason of Cytherea’s seclusion in her own room.  So had Cytherea herself.  The fact now recurred to both in one moment.

‘Do you still wish to go?’ said Miss Aldclyffe anxiously.

‘I don’t want to go now,’ Cytherea had remarked simultaneously with the other’s question.  She was pondering on the strange likeness which Miss Aldclyffe’s bereavement bore to her own; it had the appearance of being still another call to her not to forsake this woman so linked to her life, for the sake of any trivial vexation.

Miss Aldclyffe held her almost as a lover would have held her, and said musingly—­