In her heart and in mine it had come already!

Our morning meal—­once so full of pleasant good-humoured discussion of the plans for the day—­was short and silent.  Miss Fairlie seemed to feel the oppression of the long pauses in the conversation, and looked appealingly to her sister to fill them up.  Miss Halcombe, after once or twice hesitating and checking herself, in a most uncharacteristic manner, spoke at last.

“I have seen your uncle this morning, Laura,” she said.  “He thinks the purple room is the one that ought to be got ready, and he confirms what I told you.  Monday is the day—­not Tuesday.”

While these words were being spoken Miss Fairlie looked down at the table beneath her.  Her fingers moved nervously among the crumbs that were scattered on the cloth.  The paleness on her cheeks spread to her lips, and the lips themselves trembled visibly.  I was not the only person present who noticed this.  Miss Halcombe saw it, too, and at once set us the example of rising from table.

Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room together.  The kind sorrowful blue eyes looked at me, for a moment, with the prescient sadness of a coming and a long farewell.  I felt the answering pang in my own heart—­the pang that told me I must lose her soon, and love her the more unchangeably for the loss.

I turned towards the garden when the door had closed on her.  Miss Halcombe was standing with her hat in her hand, and her shawl over her arm, by the large window that led out to the lawn, and was looking at me attentively.

“Have you any leisure time to spare,” she asked, “before you begin to work in your own room?”

“Certainly, Miss Halcombe.  I have always time at your service.”

“I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright.  Get your hat and come out into the garden.  We are not likely to be disturbed there at this hour in the morning.”

As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the under-gardeners—­a mere lad—­passed us on his way to the house, with a letter in his hand.  Miss Halcombe stopped him.

“Is that letter for me?” she asked.

“Nay, miss; it’s just said to be for Miss Fairlie,” answered the lad, holding out the letter as he spoke.

Miss Halcombe took it from him and looked at the address.

“A strange handwriting,” she said to herself.  “Who can Laura’s correspondent be?  Where did you get this?” she continued, addressing the gardener.

“Well, miss,” said the lad, “I just got it from a woman.”

“What woman?”

“A woman well stricken in age.”

“Oh, an old woman.  Any one you knew?”

“I canna’ tak’ it on mysel’ to say that she was other than a stranger to me.”

“Which way did she go?”

“That gate,” said the under-gardener, turning with great deliberation towards the south, and embracing the whole of that part of England with one comprehensive sweep of his arm.