tripped and fallen; but the rigid eye and the
unconscious expression told what had happened.
One of the men stooped down to loose that
stiff white neckerchief tied but a few minutes
before, and with a half suppressed cry Ada fell
on her knees beside him.

At the sound—and, indeed, that curious hum
of confusion had mounted up stairs, and caused
some speculation in the bedrooms—the women
came out on the stairs. Augusta, with a shawl
about her, was half down, and the shrill sharp
voice of Mrs. Tilney pierced down to her,
desiring to know "what was the matter?" No
one heeded her, though she reiterated the same
shrewish cry to her daughters, and at last came
herself.

A scene of horrible tragedy in that little hall.
They were all on their knees about prostrate
Mr. Tilney. Some one had gone wildly for a
doctor. The long Quixote figure seemed longer
and thinner as it lay out there, the ruddy
Roman nose had turned pale, and there was a
gathering of foam on his lips. The dreadful
men stood by, looking on, and one of them
said dolefully, with a shake of the head, that it
"were a stroke."

Already were the dean and the dean's brother
up in their bedrooms in the deanery, getting
ready, putting on aprons and white ties; so was it
with the Whitakers, the elder of whom was busy,
not putting on a tie, but coiling a sort of white
boa round his throat. And while the dean
was waiting in the drawing-room, word came
how Mr. Tilney had been suddenly taken ill,
and how the little party had, with great regret,
to be put off.

We may conceive what an evening it was for
them, behind the green Venetian blinds of the
open windows. The snowy round table and
bright polished glass were there, just as he had
left them; the cool finger-glasses ranged on the
sideboard; and the flowers. Up-stairs, Mr.
Tilney was lying on his back suffering bleedings
and scorchings, and the customary violences to
force back life into him. The local doctor was
busy with his work; the stricken women stood
round and watched; but during this visit Mrs.
Tilney had the old sagacity to hurry away the
men in the dreadfully significant dress below
somewhere. And they, with no sensitiveness,
but with perfect good humour, complied with
her wishes.

In all these horrors which had come on so
suddenly, the golden-haired girl alone had
preserved her calmness and presence of mind. It
was she who, when they were all standing
stupified or shrieking about the poor stricken
Quixote on his back in the hall, had fluttered
away across the common to fetch the doctor;
it was she who had thought of the guests who
would pour in presently, and had sent to turn
them off; and it was she who, when they were
round the poor equerry's bed, watching the
doctor at the scorching, and blistering, and
cooling (some of the ice for the feast was laid
at the back of his head), that had laid over at
the window looking out on the tranquil evening,
with her hand resting on her golden hair, thinking
painfully, and who finally, when the doctor
had uttered some words of hope, had stolen
up-stairs, hurriedly paced up and down the
room witli her hands to her face, deeply thinking,
and then with a sudden start had come to
a resolution.

She hurriedly put a few things into a bag,
called a faithful maid into her confidence, ran
to a little store where she kept her slender
hoard, hurried on her bonnet and shawl, and
stole down again. She called to the more
sensible of the two sisters, and told her her
secret. She was out of the house in a moment,
taking the confidential maid with her. She
hurried, half running, along the Close, up the
street, looking at the clocks she met now and
again, and at last, by five minutes to six, panting
and exhausted, was entering the railway
station. She stole in furtively, and with
good reason furtively, for there was another
train coming in, and canons and others who had
been away on journeys to stations about six and
ten miles away, were returning home. That train
started at eight o'clock, and would be in town
at half-past ten or close upon eleven. A
minor canon passing her close thought he knew
the figure, but he was in a hurry to get home
to his tea, and passed on. Her veil was thick,
and she was lucky enough to get into a
carriage where there was a husband with his
wife and family, who had come a long way from
beyond St. Alans. Then her weary journey
began.

Fast as the express went, her very heart seemed
to shoot out yet faster, with eagerness, and then
to sink and collapse with a hopeless impatience
which would be unendurable, and utterly
overwhelmed her before the end of those two weary
long hours and a half. The dull burr of the
train flying past was in her ears. The
husband had covered up his shining head with a
handkerchief, and swung to and fro with infinite
regularity as he slept; a stout wife lay back in
the corner; but the little child, enjoying the
whole thing, made beds and affected going to
bed and going to sleep with elaborate preparation.
Gradually, however, the real heaviness of sleep
came upon the little eyes, and then Ada was the
only wakeful one there. It seemed ages. A
dull aching had come into her heart. That
blue chamber seemed to be peopled with those
horrid spectres she had left behind in the hall
of their house. Suddenly the train grew slower,
and yet slower still; finally stopped, but at
no station; and she heard the distant clink
of hammering afar off up at the engine, and the
voice of a far-off guard, flitting along with a
lantern, told a passenger there was something
wrong with the engine.

It took half an hour to tinker up, and then
they went on again. At about eleven the lights
were getting more frequent, flashing past in
numbers as the engine, getting as it were into
the avenue, was bounding forward screaming to
make up for lost time. And here was London,
the bright white station, and the flood of light,