she had spoken frequently, and with words which called to mind the sum of money her father had somehow procured.  Mrs. Hood had no strength to face trials such as these.  As long as her child’s life seemed in danger, she strove with a mother’s predominant instinct to defend it; but her powers failed as Emily passed out of peril.  Her outlook became blank; physical exhaustion joined with mental suffering began to render her incapable of further efforts.  Fortunately, Mrs. Baxendale perceived this in time.  A nurse was provided, in addition to the one who had assisted Mrs. Hood, and the mother became herself the object of care.

Emily had been told that her father was ill, but this fiction it was soon impossible to maintain.  Three days after the last reported conversation between Wilfrid and Mrs. Baxendale, it was determined that the latter must take upon herself the office of telling Emily the truth.  Mrs. Hood implored her to do so; the poor mother was sinking into a state which scarcely left her the command of her mind, and, though she could not sustain the duty herself, it was her harassing desire that it might quickly be performed.  So at length the revelation was made, made with all the forbearance and strengthening tenderness of which a strong-souled woman is capable.  But the first syllables prepared Emily for the whole truth.  A secret dread, which she had not dared to confess to herself on that last evening, though probably it brought about the crisis in her suffering, and which the false assurances recently given her had perhaps not wholly overcome, rushed forth as soon as evil was hinted at.  The softened statement that her father had been stricken down by a natural malady did not for a moment deceive her.  She closed her eyes; the pillows which supported her were scarcely whiter than her face.  But she was soon able to speak with perfect self-control.

‘Was he brought home wrapped in something?’ she asked.  ’With his face covered?’

‘He was, Emily.’

‘How and where did I see him?  For I know I did see him.’

’Your mother has told me that you rose from your bed, and went to the room below.  She did not realise that you were unconscious; she believed that you knew of this.’

This was her dread vision.  As if to protect herself from it, she raised her hand and laid it across her eyes.  Then it fell again to the coverlet—­thin, flower-like hand, which in its translucency of flesh seemed to have been created by spirit for its chosen abode.

When silence had lasted some moments—­

‘Now that I know he is dead,’ Emily resumed—­oh, the sad music of the last word!—­’I can bear to hear the manner of it without disguise.  Will you tell me the whole truth, Mrs. Baxendale?’

It was spoken like herself.  Ever clinging to sincerity, ever ready to face the truth of things, in how many a matter of less moment had the girl spoken with just this directness, inspiring respect in all who heard her clear, candid voice.