She had contemplated her task, and was standing behind Miss Vanderpoel’s chair, putting the last touch to her veil, when she became conscious of a slight stiffening of the neck which held so well the handsome head, then the head slowly turned towards the window giving upon the front park.  Miss Vanderpoel was listening to something, listening so intently that Ambleston felt that, for a few moments, she did not seem to breathe.  The maid’s hands fell from the veil, and she began to listen also.  She had been at the service the day before.  Miss Vanderpoel rose from her chair slowly—­very slowly, and took a step forward.  Then she stood still and listened again.

“Open that window, if you please,” she commanded—­“as if a stone image was speaking”—­Ambleston said later.  The window was thrown open, and for a few seconds they both stood still again.  When Miss Vanderpoel spoke, it was as if she had forgotten where she was, or as if she were in a dream.

“It is the ringers,” she said.  “They are tolling the passing bell.”

The serving woman was soft of heart, and had her feminine emotions.  There had been much talk of this thing in the servant’s hall.  She turned upon Betty, and forgot all rules and training.

“Oh, miss!” she cried.  “He’s gone—­he’s gone!  That good man—­out of this hard world.  Oh, miss, excuse me—­do!” And as she burst into wild tears, she ran out of the room.

. . . . .

Rosalie had been sitting in the morning room.  She also had striven to occupy herself with work.  She had written to her mother, she had read, she had embroidered, and then read again.  What was Betty doing—­what was she thinking now?  She laid her book down in her lap, and covering her face with her hands, breathed a desperate little prayer.  That life should be pain and emptiness to herself, seemed somehow natural since she had married Nigel—­but pain and emptiness for Betty—­No!  No!  No!  Not for Betty!  Piteous sorrow poured upon her like a flood.  She did not know how the time passed.  She sat, huddled together in her chair, with hidden face.  She could not bear to look at the rain and ghost mist out of doors.  Oh, if her mother were only here, and she might speak to her!  And as her loving tears broke forth afresh, she heard the door open.

“If you please, my lady—­I beg your pardon, my lady,” as she started and uncovered her face.

“What is it, Jennings?”

The figure at the door was that of the serious, elderly butler, and he wore a respectfully grave air.

“As your ladyship is sitting in this room, we thought it likely you would not hear, the windows being closed, and we felt sure, my lady, that you would wish to know——­”

Lady Anstruthers’ hands shook as they clung to the arms of her chair.

“To know——­” she faltered.  “Hear what?”

“The passing bell is tolling, my lady.  It has just begun.  It is for Lord Mount Dunstan.  There’s not a dry eye downstairs, your ladyship, not one.”