It was on the Thursday of Whitsun-week when Lady Adela and Bertha came down from their visit of inquiry, a little more hopeful than on the previous day, though they could not yet say that recovery was setting in.

But a great shock awaited them. The parlour-maid met them at the door, pale and tearful. ‘Oh, my lady, Mrs. Eden’s come, and—’

Poor Eden herself was in the hall, and nothing was to be heard but ‘Oh, my lady!’ and another tempest of sobs.

‘Come in, Eden,’ scolded Bertha, in her impatience. ‘Don’t keep us in this way. What has happened to the child? Let us have it at once! The worst, or you wouldn’t be here.’

For all answer, Eden held up a little wooden spade, a sailor hat, and a shoe showing traces of sand and sea-water.

‘It is so then,’ said Lady Adela. ‘Oh, his mother! But,’ after that one wail, she thought of the poor woman before her, ‘I am sure you are not to blame, Eden.’

‘Oh, my lady, if I could but feel that! But that I should have trusted the darling out of my sight for a moment!’

Presently they brought her to a state in which she could tell her lamentable history.

She had been spending the afternoon at Mr. Rollstone’s, leaving Master Michael as usual in the care of the underling, Ellen, and after that she knew no more till neither child nor maid came home at his supper-time, and Mrs. Morton was slowly roused to take alarm, while Eden, half distracted, wandered about, seeking her charge, and found Ellen, calling and shouting in vain for him. Ellen confessed that she had seen him running after the Lincoln children, and supposing him with them, had given herself up to the study of a penny dreadful in company with another young nursemaid. When they had awakened to real life, the first idea had been that he must be with these children; but they were gone, and Ellen, fancying that he might have gone home with them, asked at their lodging, but no, he was not there.

The tide was by this time covering the beach, and driving away the miserable maids, with the aunt, cousin and others who had been on the fruitless quest. No more could be done then, and they went home with desolation in their hearts. Miss Ida, as Eden declared, stayed out long after everybody else when it was clearly of no use, and came back so tired and upset that she went up straight to bed. There was still a hope that some one might have met the little boy and taken him home, unable clearly to make out to whom he belonged, more especially as the Lincolns in terror and compunction had confessed that they had seen him and his nurse from a distance, and had rushed headlong round a projecting rock into a cove, hoping that he had not seen them, because he was so tiresome and spoilt all their games. And when that morning the spade, hat, and shoe were discovered upon the shore, not far from the very rock, the poor children had to draw plenty of morals on the consequences of selfishness. No doubt that poor little Michael had pursued them barefooted and gone too near the waves!

There was nothing more but the forlorn hope that the waves would restore the little body they had carried off, and Mrs. Morton was watching for that last sad satisfaction. In case of that contingency, Ellen, as the last person known to have seen the boy, had been left at Westhaven, in agonies of despair, vowing that she would never speak to any one, nor look at a story-book again in her life. She had attempted the excuse that she thought she saw Miss Ida going in that direction, but the young lady had declared that she had never been on the beach at all that afternoon till after the alarm had been given; and had been extremely angry with Ellen for making false excuses and trying to shift off the blame, and the girl had been much terrified, and owned that she was not at all sure.

‘And oh, my lady,’ entreated Eden, ‘don’t send me up to the House! Don’t make me face her ladyship! I should die of it!’

‘We must think what is to be done about that,’ said Lady Adela. ‘Can you tell whether any one from the House has seen you?’

Eden thought not, and after she had been consigned to her friend, Lady Adela’s maid, to be rested, fed, and comforted as far as might be possible, the sisters-in-law held sad counsel, and agreed that it was not safe to keep back the terrible news from the poor mother who expected daily tidings of her child, and might hear some report, in spite of her shut-up state.

‘Poor Adela, I pity you almost as much as her,’ said Bertha.

‘Oh, I know now how much I have to be thankful for! No uncertainty—and my little one’s grave.’

‘Besides Amice. Let me drive you up, Addie. Your heart is beating enough to knock you down.’

‘Well, I believe it is. But not up to the front door. I will go in by the garden. Oh, may he be spared to her at least!’

Very pale then Lady Adela crept in, meeting a weeping maid who was much relieved to see her, but was hardly restrained from noisy sobs. Mr. Trotman, she said, had come just before the garden boy had inevitably dashed up with the tidings, and the household had been waiting till he came out, to secure that he should be near when Lady Northmoor was told.

Adela felt that this might be the safest opportunity, and sent a message to the door to beg that her ladyship would come and speak to her for a few minutes in the study.

Mary’s soft step was soon there, and her lips were framing the words, ‘No ground lost,’ when at sight of Adela’s face the light went out of her eyes, and setting herself firmly on her feet, she said, ‘You have bad news. My boy!’

Adela came near and would have taken her hand, saying—‘My poor Mary’—but she clasped them both as if to hold herself together, and said, ‘The fever!’

‘No, no—sadder still! Drowned!’

‘Ah, then there was not all that suffering, and without me! Thankworthy— Oh no, no, please’—as Lady Adela, with eyes brimming over, would have pressed her to her bosom—‘don’t—don’t upset me, or I could not attend to Frank. It all turns on this one day, they say, and I must—I must be as usual. There will be time enough to know all about it—if’—with a long oppressed gasp—‘he is saved from the hearing it.’

‘I think you are right, dear,’ said Adela, ‘if you keep him—’ but she could not go on.

‘Well, any way,’ said Mary, ‘either he will be given back, or he will be saved this. Let me go back to him, please.’ Then at the door, putting her hand to her head—‘Who is here?’

‘Poor Eden.’

‘Ah, let her and Emma know that I am sure it is not their fault. Come again to-morrow, please; I think he will be better.’

She went away in that same gliding manner, perfectly tearless. Adela waited to see the doctor, who assured her that the patient had rather gained than lost during the last twenty-four hours, and that if he could be spared from any shock or agitation he would probably recover. Lady Northmoor seemed so entirely absorbed by his critical state, that she was not likely to betray the sad knowledge she had put aside in the secret chamber of her heart, more especially as her husband was still too much weighed down, and too slumberous to be observant, or to speak much, and knowing the child to be out of the house, he did not inquire for him.

Nevertheless, Mr. Trotman gladly approved of Lady Adela’s intention of sleeping in the house in case of any sudden collapse; and the servants, who were not to let Lady Northmoor know, evidently felt this a great relief.

‘Yes, it is a comfort to think some one will be within that poor thing’s reach,’ said Bertha, as they went back together, ‘and, if you can bear it, you are the right person.’

‘She will not let herself dwell on it. She never even looked at Mrs. Morton’s letter.’

‘And I really hope they won’t find the poor little dear, to have all the fuss and heart-rending.’

‘Oh, Birdie!’

‘There’s only one thing that would make me wish it. I’m quite sure that that Miss Ida knows more about it than she owns. No, you need not say, “Oh, Birdie” again; I don’t suspect her of the deed, but I do believe she saw the boy and kept out of his way, and now wants that poor Ellen to have all the blame!’

‘You will believe nothing against a girl out of an orphanage!’

‘I had rather any day believe Ellen Mole than Ida Morton. There’s something about that girl which has always revolted me. I would never trust her farther than I could see her!’

‘Prejudice, Birdie; because she is in bad style.’

‘You to talk of prejudice, Addie, who hardly knew how to go on living here under the poor stick!’

‘Don’t, Birdie. He has earned esteem by sheer goodness. Poor man, I don’t know what to wish for him when I think of the pang that awaits him.’

‘You know what to wish for yourself and Northmoor! Not but that Herbert may come to good if he doesn’t come into possession for many a long year.’

‘And now I must write to that poor child, Constance. But oh, Bertha, don’t condemn hastily! Haven’t I had enough of that?’