burn it unread. Why should she write to me again? Her letters only
pained me. I threw it aside and began to work--in the busy occupation of
the morning I forgot all about it.

I did not open it until evening. It was from Coralie, but it only held
these few words:

"Edgar--My boy--my beautiful boy--is dying. Come to me; for if I
lose him I shall die, too. In my distress I would rather have you
near me than any one else.

CORALIE TREVELYAN."

Was it true, or was it an invention? Poor little Rupert dying! Why, no
one had even told me he was ill. Perhaps I had better go. No mother
could be so cold and so wicked as to feign death for her only child.

Lord Winter raised no objections.

"It was not very convenient," he said, but of course he "must bow to
necessity."

I was in time to catch the mail train. Eight o'clock found me the next
morning in London, and, without waiting for rest or refreshment, I
started at once for Crown Anstey.

It was only too true. I found my old home full of the wildest confusion;
women were weeping and wringing their hands--the whole place was in
disorder.