attire, less jocund in his words, less given to flattery and sport and gems and all the little wickednesses which she had loved.  But they, those others had, one and all, struggled to escape from her.  Through all the gems and mirth and flattery there had been the same purpose.  They liked the softness of her hand, they liked the flutter of her silk, they liked to have whispered in their ears the bold words of her practised raillery.  Each liked for a month or two to be her special friend.  But then, after that, each had deserted her as had done the one before; till in each new alliance she felt that such was to be her destiny, and that she was rolling a stone which would never settle itself, straining for waters which would never come lip high.  But John Morton, after once saying that he loved her, had never tired, had never wished to escape.  He had been so true to his love, so true to his word, that he had borne from her usage which would have fully justified escape had escape been to his taste.  But to the last he had really loved her, and now, on his death bed, he had sent for her to come to him.  She would not be coward enough to refuse his request.  “Should he say anything to you about his will don’t refuse to hear him, because it may be of the greatest importance,” Lady Augustus whispered to her daughter as the carriage was driven up to the front door.

It was then four o’clock, and it was understood that the two ladies were to stay that one night at Bragton, a letter having been received by Lady Ushant that morning informing her that the mother as well as the daughter was coming.  Poor Lady Ushant was almost beside herself,—­not knowing what she would do with the two women, and having no one in the house to help her.  Something she had heard of Lady Augustus, but chiefly from Mrs. Hopkins who certainly had not admired her master’s future mother-in-law.  Nor had Arabella been popular; but of her Mrs. Hopkins had only dared to say that she was very handsome and “a little upstartish.”  How she was to spend the evening with them Lady Ushant could not conceive,—­it having been decided, in accordance with the doctor’s orders, that the interview should not take place till the next morning.  When they were shown in Lady Ushant stood just within the drawing-room door and muttered a few words as she gave her hand to each.  “How is he?” asked Arabella, throwing up her veil boldly, as soon as the door was closed.  Lady Ushant only shook her head.  “I knew it would be so.  It is always so with anything I care for.”

“She is so distressed, Lady Ushant,” said the mother, “that she hardly knows what she does.”  Arabella shook her head.  “It is so, Lady Ushant”

“Am I to go to him now?” said Arabella.  Then the old lady explained the doctor’s orders, and offered to take them to their rooms.  “Perhaps I might say a word to you alone?  I will stay here if you will go with mamma.”  And she did stay till Lady Ushant came down to her.  “Do you mean to say it is certain,” she asked,—­certain that he must—­die?”