"Only me, ma'am. The ladies are waiting luncheon for you. Miss Emma sends her compliments and says will you come down?" spoke the voice of Sarah, the lady's maid.
"Love to Miss Cavendish, and ask her to excuse me. I do not want any luncheon," answered Mary Grey, without opening the door.
Then she sank back in her chair with throbbing pulses, waiting for the issue of this crisis. She was really ill with intense anxiety and dread. She grew so weak at last that she lay down upon her sofa.
Then came another rap at the door.
"Who is that?" she asked again, faintly.
"It is I, dear," answered the voice of Emma Cavendish.
Mrs. Grey arose trembling and opened the door.
"I was afraid that you were not well. I came up to see," said Emma, kindly, as she entered the room.
"I—no, I am not quite well," faltered Mary Grey, as she retreated to the sofa and sat down, with her back purposely to the light and her face in the shadow.
"You really look pale and ill. What is the matter, dear?"