"Well, Faunce, any news of the prodigal son?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bad news?"
"Very bad news, sir. I came to you in order that you might break it to Mrs. Rannock."
"It will have to stand over, Faunce. Mrs. Rannock is very ill. I may say she is dangerously ill."
"Indeed, sir? That's sudden, for it's only four days since I received her instructions, and she then appeared in fair health, considering her age."
"Yes, she was a wonder for her age, but always delicate—a bit of porcelain that ought to have been behind glass in a cabinet. And she was eaten up by anxiety about Rannock. She took a chill, coming round here to see my wife, who is laid up, the evening after you saw her, and it developed into influenza, or congestion of the lungs—God knows what! The doctors only tell me she is old, and that her life hangs by a thread; but I'm afraid we shall lose her, Faunce."
"If that sweet old lady dies without hearing what I have to tell her, I think those who love her best will have cause to thank God, sir; for I believe my story would kill her."
"Is it as bad as that?"
"It couldn't be worse, sir."