"A collision on the London and Brighton Railway, and ever so many killed
or wounded, and--Gracious goodness!"

"What, mother?"

"Among those instantly killed are the Marquis and Marchioness of
Brambleton and the Countess of Hurstmonceux!"

"No!" cried the young man, rushing across the room, snatching the paper
from his mother's hand, and with starting eyes fixed upon the paragraph
that she hastily pointed out, seeming to devour the words.

A few days after this Nora Worth sat propped up in an easy-chair by the
open window that commanded the view of the Forest Valley and of the
opposite hill crowned with the splendid mansion of Brudenell Hall.

But Nora was not looking upon this view; at least except upon a very
small part of it--namely, the little narrow footpath that led down her
own hill and was lost in the shade of the valley. The doctor's
prescriptions had done Nora no good; how should they? Could he, more
than others, "minister to a mind diseased"? In a word, she had now grown
so weak that the spinning was entirely set aside, and she passed her
days propped up in the easy-chair beside the window, through which she
could watch that little path, which was now indeed so disused, so
neglected and grass grown, as to be almost obliterated.

Suddenly, while Nora's eyes were fixed abstractedly upon this path, she
uttered a great cry and started to her feet.

Hannah stopped the clatter of her shuttle to see what was the matter.