There was a ring at the front-door, decisive, sharp, and resonant.
"Great Heaven!" cried Harry; "if it should be he himself! Hide me away; put me out of sight." Her terror was piteous to behold: she shook in every limb.
"It is the post," said Mrs. Basil, contemptuously; and she was right.
The servant brought in a letter for her mistress.
"I don't know the hand," mused she. "Black-bordered, and black-sealed too." She opened it without excitement, and read it through: it was but a few lines.
"Your omen has proved true for once, Mrs. Coe," said she, in quiet tones. "This speaks of death."
"Whose death?" cried Harry.
"My husband's, Richard's father. Carew of Crompton died last night."
There was no sorrow in the aged woman's face: a gravity, unmixed with tenderness, possessed it. Carew was naught to her, and had been naught for twoscore years. But the tide of memory was at its flow within her brain; and because the Past is Past it touches us. This man had loved her once, after his own scornful manner, when he was young, and before power and selfishness had made him stone. He had been the father of her only son, and now he was Dead.
"I am so sorry," said Harry, not quite knowing what to say.
"There is no need for sorrow," replied the other, quietly. "Let us go up stairs and finish our work."