"You are not well; you are not fit to travel. To-morrow----"
"To-morrow I may not be able to travel. To-morrow will be too late. What I have said, I must do. You don't know what hangs upon it." Her lips contract with pain again. "If you leave me alone, and I do not see him to-night, I--I----"
Her eyes wander as her tongue refuses to shape the thought which holds her enthralled with fear and horror.
"A word first," says the gardener's son. "How long is it since you have seen him?"
"Three months."
"You have written to him?"
"Yes--yes. Ask me nothing more, for God's sake!"
"The place is twenty miles away. It is now six o'clock. In four hours the lecture will be over. It is snowing hard."
She comes close to his side; she looks straight into his eyes.
"John, your mother is dead."