"Miss Elizabeth, sir," he said to Edward.
Edward just glanced at it; it was a foreign telegram.
"I'll take it in," he said.
Mrs. Hancock had stationed herself strategically near the window, so that she could easily stroll out with Mr. Martin.
"There you are," she said; "and you've both been good and not waited too long. Now let us have some music. There's room for you here, Mr. Martin. Who will begin—you, Edward, or Elizabeth? I meant to have got some duets for you, and then you could have played together. What is that, Edward?"
"A telegram for Elizabeth," he said.
"Open it then, dear," said Mrs. Hancock to the girl. "We'll excuse you."
The little hush that so often attends the opening of a telegram fell on the room as Elizabeth tore open the thin paper. She looked at the message, and, standing quite still, handed it to her aunt. It was from her stepmother, and told her that her father had died of cholera that morning.