She returned to her cushions, and fell asleep; slept and dreamed dreams as joyful as her waking thoughts, and no shadow of that gathering cloud that was to blacken all her world so soon, fell upon her.
Hours passed, and still Aileen slept. Then came an imperative knock at her door—again and again, louder each time; and then Aileen started up, fully awake. Her room was flooded with sunshine, countless birds sang in the swaying green gloom of the branches, and the ceaseless sea was all aglitter with sparkling sunlight.
"Come in," Miss Jocyln said. It was her maid, she thought—and she walked over to an arm-chair, and composedly sat down.
The door opened, and Colonel Jocyln, not Fanchon, appeared, an open note in his hand, his face full of trouble.
"Papa!" Aileen cried, starting up in alarm.
"Bad news, my daughter—very bad! very sorrowful! Read that."
The note was very brief, in a spidery, female hand.
"Dear Colonel Jocyln—We are in the greatest trouble. Poor Lady Thetford died with awful suddenness this morning, in one of those dreadful spasms. We are all nearly distracted. Rupert bears it better than any of us. Pray come over as soon as you can.
"May Everard."
Aileen Jocyln sunk back in her seat, pale and trembling.