mounted into his chair again, and resumed the interrupted business of
the hour.

Mrs. Carnegie glanced aside at the letter, read the post-mark, and
reflected aloud: "Norminster--who can be writing to us from Norminster?
Some of Bessie's people?"

"The shortest way would be to open the letter and see. Hand it over to
me," said the doctor.

Bessie pricked her ears; but Mr. Carnegie read the letter to himself,
while his wife was busy replenishing the little mugs that came up in
single file incessantly for more milk. A momentary pause in the wants of
her offspring gave her leisure to notice her husband's visage--a
dusk-red and weather-brown visage at its best, but gathered now into
extraordinary blackness. She looked, but did not speak; the doctor was
the first to speak.

"It is about Bessie--from her grandfather's agent," said he with
suppressed vexation as he replaced the large full sheet in its envelope.

"What about _me_?" cried Bessie in an explosion of natural curiosity.

"Your mother will tell you presently. Mind, boys, you are good to-day,
and don't tire your sister."

So unusual an admonition made the boys stare, and everybody was hushed
with a presentiment of something going to happen that nobody would
approve. Mrs. Carnegie had her conjectures, not far wide of the truth,
and Bessie was conscious of impatience to get the children out of the