TO the end of their lives Ronald and Vivian never forgot that journey home. For one thing, they had never travelled in the dark before, and everything looked strange and unreal.

Aunt Dora came down into the hall before they left, to kiss them and say good-bye; but her face was so white and drawn that Vivian almost shrank from her in fear, and the hopes that Ronald would have expressed for his little cousin’s recovery died away on his lips. It was such a contrast to the bright, happy woman who had been like a playmate to them ever since they arrived.

They drove through the lighted streets in silence, for Dr Armitage was deep in thought, thinking about the sorrow that was threatening his favourite sister, and wondering if Sir Antony Jones, whose experience in such cases was very great, could possibly give her a ray of hope. At Victoria he bought the boys a handful of illustrated papers; but the light in the carriage was so uncertain that they soon stopped looking at them, and sat back in their corners, staring into the shadowy darkness as it rushed past.

Ronald’s mind was full of problems which he could not solve, the problems of life and death, which are so mysterious that in the face of them the oldest and wisest among us are but children, and can only trust where we cannot see; while Vivian was slowly fighting his way to a decision, which was very real and tangible, but which seemed so far above what his courage could attain to that as yet it was only a dream.

‘Here we are, boys; gather up your things. It is a cold night, and I do not want to keep Black and the horse waiting.’

Both boys started at their father’s words, and jumped up so quickly that they were flung against each other as the train drew up with a jerk at the well-known little station, and old Timms the porter came along the platform swinging his lamp, and crying out ‘Sitt-ingham, Sitt-ingham!’ at the top of his familiar voice.

He stopped when he came to their carriage and opened the door. Apparently they were the only passengers who were going to alight.

‘Well, young gentlemen,’ he said heartily, lifting out the rugs, ‘and how have you enjoyed yourselves up in London? And how did you leave Miss Dora—I beg her pardon, Mrs Osbourne? The other name always comes most familiar to me; ’twas the name we knew her by when she used to come and help the missus to nurse the little ones the year they were all down wi’ the fever. Maria often says that if it hadn’t been Miss Dora’s soups and puddings Belinda wouldn’t have been alive to-day.’

‘Then Maria must think of Miss Dora to-night, Timms,’ said the doctor sadly, ‘for she is in great trouble. Her little girl, her only daughter, is very ill—almost hopelessly so, it seems to me. I have just been up to see her, and have left my wife there.’

‘Eh, but I’m sorry to hear you say so, sir; very sorry!’ said the old man, shouldering the portmanteau, and turning through the little white gate to where the carriage was standing; ‘and so will Maria be when she hears. The only little lass, say you? But that is a heavy sorrow. It seems to me, sir, it’s always the best beloved that’s took first. Though we’ll hope that the little miss may be spared yet awhile. Children get over a lot.’

‘I hope so, I’m sure. Good-night, Timms. Remember me to Maria.’

‘Good-night, sir, and maybe you’ll let us know what news they be in the morning, sir.’

Ronald and Vivian had already taken their seats, and it did not seem long until the carriage turned in at the lodge gates, and soon it drew up at the front door. A bright fire was blazing in the hall, and Lucy, little Dorothy’s nurse, was waiting to help them off with their coats and see that everything was comfortable. But, oh, what a lonely homecoming it seemed without mother’s cheery voice and bright face!

Even father seemed to notice the silence, for after having hurriedly glanced at one or two notes which were lying on his desk waiting for him, he turned to the maid. ‘Where is Dorothy, nurse?’ he asked. ‘If she is awake we will have her down. The little lady must act mother for us to-night.—Mustn’t she, boys?’

‘Oh yes, father, do have her down,’ they both cried eagerly. ‘We were afraid she might be asleep, but it would seem so much more “homey” if she were here.’

‘I’m afraid she is asleep, sir,’ said Lucy. ‘I put her in her crib just before the carriage came. She had been watching for it since before six o’clock, and she got so tired she went to sleep in my arms, so I undressed her and put her in bed.’

‘Then we must just do the best we can without her,’ said the doctor, sitting down and beginning to pour himself out a cup of tea, while Lucy saw to the wants of the boys before she left the room.

It was a very silent meal, and it was a relief when it was over, although no one seemed quite to know what to do next. The doctor sat restlessly turning over the leaves of a medical journal; the boys wandered out into the hall, and stood looking out of the long, low window at the end of it without speaking. The window overlooked the road which led to the village, and from it they could see the bright yellow light which burned over the little shop which served as stationer’s shop and book-club, as well as post-office. They knew that old Giles Masterton, who acted as postman, would bring up the telegram as soon as it came; and as he always carried a lantern they would be able to mark his progress up the road in the darkness.

Nine o’clock struck at last, and yet they waited, huddled together behind a curtain; and when Lucy appeared and hinted at the advisability of going to bed they looked so distressed that she had not the heart to insist.

‘The message will come all the same as if you were up, Master Vivian,’ she said persuasively, ‘and I’m sure your father will come and tell you what it is at once.’ But Vivian only shook his head determinedly, and pressed his face a little closer to the pane.

‘It must come soon if it is coming at all, Lucy,’ said Ronald, ‘for the office shuts at nine, and I think we can stay up until it comes. Father does not seem to mind, and we could never go to sleep until we know.’

‘I’m going to stay up until it comes, no matter what any one says or thinks, so you needn’t bother any more, Lucy,’ broke out Vivian so fiercely that both Lucy and Ronald looked at him in surprise.

To Ronald, in the face of the trouble that was hanging over them, any outburst of temper seemed almost irreverent; but Lucy understood better, and with rare tact took no notice of the angry words. Instead of remonstrating with Vivian, as she might have done, or threatening him with his father’s displeasure, she went quietly into the cloakroom and took down two greatcoats.

‘Put this on, Master Ronald,’ she said; ‘and here is yours, Master Vivian; ’tis a hard frost to-night, and this hall is as cold as can be.

‘There now,’ as the boys silently obeyed her, and buttoned up the coats, ‘you won’t get cold with these on; and if you would like a good hot drink of cocoa before you go to bed come into the nursery. Miss Dorothy is sleeping so soundly you won’t wake her, and I’ll have the kettle boiling.’

Then she left them to wait in the darkness.

At last, just as the clock was chiming the half-hour, a tiny red speck appeared under the yellow lamp, and began to move slowly up the road. It was old Giles’s lantern, and both boys drew a shuddering breath of suspense. What would the news be—life or death?

They had not long to wait. Dr Armitage’s listening ears had already caught the sound of the old postman’s limp as he came up the frosty road, and he laid down his newspaper hastily; and, crossing the hall without noticing the two little figures behind the curtain, he opened the front door, letting in a gust of clear cold air as he did so, and went down the drive to meet him.

The boys crept to the door and watched breathlessly as he tore open the flimsy orange-coloured envelope and read its contents by the light of old Giles’s lantern. When he had read it he crumpled it up in his hand and came slowly back to the house.

‘What does it say, father?’ asked Ronald. But he hardly needed to ask; he knew by the sad look on his father’s face that the message was not one of hope.

‘Ha, my boys!’ said the doctor, starting at the sound of his eldest son’s voice, ‘I had almost forgotten you. It is time that you were both in bed. Come into the study, to the fire. Vivian, you look blue with cold.’

Then, when they had followed him into the study, he sat down in his arm-chair and drew them gently to him. ‘It is bad news, boys,’ he said gravely, and his voice shook as he spoke. ‘Sir Antony Jones can only say what Dr Robson and I said; I am much afraid that if dear little Isobel is living now she will not last through the night.’

‘Oh father!’ said Ronald, the tears running down his cheeks, ‘how will Aunt Dora bear it? She never said so, but I feel sure that Isobel was more to her almost than Ralph or Claude. It was not that she loved them less, but Isobel was her only little girl. Oh, just think if it had been Dorothy!’

‘God forbid,’ said Dr Armitage involuntarily, and he pressed his arm round the boys who were so precious to him, and there was silence for a moment, broken only by Ronald’s sobs, for Vivian, who was generally the more easily moved to tears, stood perfectly still and quiet.

When the doctor spoke again it was in his usual tone, though his manner was grave and sad. ‘Well, boys, it is more than time that you were in bed. I must write some letters, and then go down and have a look at Widow Dallas’s grandchild. She is ill too—very ill—but I hope she will pull through. I will look in and see you when I come back, and say good-night if you are not asleep.’

He kissed them tenderly, whispering to them not to forget Isobel’s name in their prayers, and then he went out, and they went slowly up to bed.

At the head of the stairs Ronald turned off, and went quietly towards the nursery, stifling his sobs as best he could.

‘I’m going to give little Dorothy a kiss,’ he whispered. ‘I never knew before what a blessing a little sister is. Aren’t you coming?’

But Vivian shook his head, while a curious stifled sound like a groan broke from his lips, and he went straight along the passage to his own room.