"I am extremely sorry, Sophronia, that you were so alarmed last night. I trust you feel no ill effects this morning?"
"Ill effects! My dear John, I am a wreck! Simply a wreck, mentally and physically. I shall never recover from it—never."
"Oh, don't say that, Cousin Sophronia!" exclaimed Margaret, who was really much distressed at all that passed.
"My love, if it is the truth, I must say it. Truth, Margaret, is what I live for. No, I shall never recover, I feel it. My prayer is that these unhappy children may never know that they are the cause of my untimely—"
"Has Basil made his apology?" asked Mr. Montfort, abruptly.
"Yes, John, yes; I am bound to say he has, though he showed little feeling in it. Not a tenth part so much as little Merton, who was in real sorrow,—actually shed tears,—although he had no hand in the cruel deceit. Ah! Merton is the only one of those children who has any heart."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Montfort, "I didn't know it was as bad as that."
"Quite, I assure you, dearest John. If it were not for my poor William and his children, I should take Merton with me and be a mother to him. His nerves, like mine, are shattered by the terrible occurrences of the last two nights. He was positively hysterical as he pointed out to me—what I had already pointed out to you, Margaret—that the real thing had not been explained. I might, in time, live down the effect of those children's wicked jest; but the Voice of Fernley has never been explained, and never will be."
Mr. Montfort pulled his moustache, and looked out of the window, observing the prospect; but Margaret cried:
"Oh, Cousin Sophronia, you are wrong; indeed, indeed you are! Young Mr. Merryweather found out all about it last night, only he had not time to tell us. He said it was something perfectly simple, and that there was no need of being alarmed in the least."