When she let the daylight into her room, it showed her a face in her
mirror that bore no trace of conflicting anxieties. Her complexion
favored this effect of inward calm; it was always thick; and her eyes
seemed to her all the brighter for their vigils.

A smile, even, hovered on her mouth as she sat down at the
breakfast-table, in the pretty negligee she had worn all night, and
poured out Miss Lynde's coffee for her.

"That's always very becoming to you, Bessie," said her aunt. "It's the
nicest breakfast gown you have."

"Do you think so?" Bessie looked down at it, first on one side and then
on the other, as a woman always does when her dress is spoken of.

"Mr. Alan said he would have his breakfast in his room, miss," murmured
the butler, in husky respectfulness, as he returned to Bessie from
carrying Miss Lynde's cup to her. "He don't want anything but a little
toast and coffee."

She perceived that the words were meant to make it easy for her to ask:
"Isn't he very well, Andrew?"

"About as usual, miss," said Andrew, a thought more sepulchral than
before. "He's going on--about as usual."

She knew this to mean that he was going on from bad to worse, and that
his last night's excess was the beginning of a debauch which could end
only in one way. She must send for the doctor; he would decide what was