"Are you going?" Miss Wade asked, coming out of her moody reverie.
"Yes, when I have had a cup of tea—it is drawing down stairs at Mrs. Butterby's fire. Will you not take another?"
"No, thank you; I can't eat. I will wait here while you take it."
There was a newspaper on the bed. Miss Wade took it, and sat down to read whilst she waited. The actress left the room, returning a moment or two after, with a small snub-nosed teapot and a plate of buttered toast. She was standing at a little open pantry pouring out the tea, when she suddenly laid down the teapot, and turned round to look at her companion. It was not an exclamation Miss Wade had uttered, it was a sort of cry; and she was holding the paper before her, staring at it in blank amaze.
"What is the matter?" Miss Johnston inquired, in her calm voice.
Miss Wade looked up, a sudden and strange flush passing over her colorless face.
"Nothing," she said, slowly. "That is—I mean I saw the—the death of a person I knew, in this paper."
She held it up before her face, and sat there while the actress drank her tea and ate her toast, never moving or stirring. Miss Johnston left the pantry, put on her bonnet and shawl, and took up her bundle as if to go.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Wade," she said, "but it is time for us to go."
Miss Wade arose, with the paper still in her hand. Two bright spots, all unusual there, and which strong excitement alone could bring, burned on either cheek, and a strange dusky fire shone in her eyes.