"We never do hear from her, Uncle Francis. Papa writes to her sometimes, and I write, but we never receive any answer."
"I fear she is on her last legs."
The major spoke solemnly, with quite a rueful expression of countenance. Badly though he wanted the money his sister's death would bring, and estranged from him though she was, he could not and did not think of it in any spirit but a sad one.
"I have heard from London two or three times lately, Edina, from my lawyer: John Street, you know. And in each letter he has given me a very poor account of Mrs. Atkinson. Her death, poor soul, must be very near."
It had been nearer than the major, or even his lawyer, anticipated. She was dead even then. At the very moment the major was talking of her she was lying dead at Eagles' Nest. Had been dead three or four hours.
The news reached them in the morning. A letter was delivered at Spring Lawn, and was carried up, as usual, to the major in bed. No one took any particular notice of the letter; as a rule, the major's letters were only applications from creditors, and could not be supposed to interest the household. Mrs. Raynor was seated at breakfast with her three elder children and Edina, when a sudden bumping on the floor above, and shouting in the major's voice, considerably startled them.
"Good gracious! he must have fallen out of bed!" cried poor Mrs. Raynor.
"And upset his coffee," said Charley, with a laugh.
But it was nothing of the sort. The major had jumped up to dress in hot haste, and was calling out to them between whiles. He had received news of the death of his sister, Mrs. Atkinson; and was going up forthwith to Eagles' Nest.
"Shall I go too, papa?" asked Charley.