wickedness."

"Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories--I speak the
truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast
here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you."

"How is mamma?" I asked.

"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply.

"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is."

"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied.

And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not
say my mother was better.

My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy,
and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.

When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the
house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound--no
bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma
loved were all quiet--the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang
over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart
grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more
of my fears to Emma.

She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for
me, and left me there.