Mrs. Beaton sank back in her chair with eyes closed. Andrew bent over his mother, holding a smelling-bottle to her nostrils, and murmuring reassuring words. Elsie was very pale.
The old lady recovered herself, sat up, and said, rather feebly, that there was nothing the matter. Andrew, somewhat relieved, darted an angry glance at Mrs. Penn.
"Pray sit down, Mrs. Penn," he said, "and let me beg you to be composed. Perhaps a cup of tea may steady your nerves."
Elsie poured out the tea at once, and handed it kindly to the poor shaken woman, whose distress was very genuine.
"The Daily Telegraph told me to come here. That's why I came," she whimpered at last. "But no one seems glad to see me," she added tearfully.
Andrew felt a pang of self-reproach.
"We are very glad," he said promptly. "If I was rude I hope you will pardon me. But mother can't stand a shock, and you came upon us rather suddenly, you see."
"I'm so unhappy," poor Mrs. Penn replied. "I daresay I don't seem a bit like myself. I lost him nine weeks ago."
Elsie gave a little exclamation of dismay. Had the guidance of the vanished hand led only to a disappointment like this?
"I wish you had told us sooner," said Andrew, trying to suppress his indignation.