That what I longed and prayed for every hour of my life should come to pass was not wonderful, but that a day on which I was to be called to make the greatest sacrifice of my life should steal stealthily upon me seems strange.

That morning when I came downstairs, my little house in Chelsea looked exactly like it always had done.  The sun shone as the sun does shine in the early winter in London, and no more, until after I had read that paragraph; then, behold a new world was born.  Why had my eyes been blind to the gloriousness of the morning?  Why had I thought the day an ordinarily dull one with just the amount of pale sunshine which is meted out to those happy people who are wise enough to live within easy reach of the river?  Yes, I know, some people do say that Chelsea is foggy.

It depends so much on their lives.  No place could be foggy to me that day.  My fear was that Nannie should read the news in my face.  I looked away when she said, “Anything in the paper?” as she had said a hundred times before.  She always came to see me eat my breakfast, so she said, but I knew it was really to hear the news.  I handed her the paper, although I hated to let the words out of my sight, and she glanced at it.  She paused and walked to the window.  Kind Nannie, she was giving me time.  She blew her nose, she was crying, she knew.  A double knock at the door brought my heart to a standstill.  Lady Mary was right, he did care.  It seemed hours before the telegram was brought to me.  I hardly dared to open it.  There is some happiness too great to bear.  I opened it and read:  —­

Sara very ill.  Come at once.

      Diana

“Nannie,” I said, “I am going to Hames.”

“To-day?” she said.  She knew it was my day of days.

“I must, Nannie.  Will you come?”

“No; I’ll stay here.  Poor Mrs. David, whatever will she do?”

I could hardly imagine, and I am glad to remember that my sorrow seemed a small thing compared to hers.

It would be impossible for me to describe that journey.  The train crept along.  It seemed to stop hours at the station.  No one seemed to remember that Sara was ill.  I felt the grip of a cold hand on my heart.  Should I ever arrive?  I did at last, and found a groom waiting for me at the station, with a dogcart.  His mouth twitched, and he could hardly control his voice to tell me that there was no fresh news.  The carriages were wanted for the doctors; did I mind the dogcart?  Mind?  I could have urged the horse to a gallop, and yet I dreaded to arrive.

It was strange to pass through the quiet, deserted hall, up the stairs, and to hear no sound.  A nurse opened a door and spoke in a whisper.  I went into the room, and not until I saw Diana, so lovely in her grief, did I realize the agony of her suffering.  She put out her hand and silently pressed mine.  I turned away so that she should not see my face.