come out of the house, Mrs. Deering sent such messages as were needful to the General, among others that she believed Miss Fane and herself would return by the latest train to-night; and the sisters drove away.
For a long time not a word passed between them. At last, as they were going through the city, Mrs. Deering laid her hand on her sister's. "Collect yourself, Kate," she said. "Remember Lord Petres' feelings, above everything."
"Don't talk to me,', said Katharine, shrinking, as though a touch were agony to her; "I can't bear it!"
And then "Steven, Steven!" the old burden, death-toned now, rang through her heart. They were not divided, finally, it seemed. She was destined to look upon his face once more in this world!
CHAPTER LIII.
FOR LIFE OR DEATH.
The twilight was deepening fast as they stopped before the arched stone entrance of Ashcot farm.
"Thank God you are here, Huntly!" said a voice, and at the same instant the Squire appeared at the door of the carriage. "I was afraid—what Katharine, Bella, only you! I hoped it was the surgeon from town. Lord Petres telegraphed for him hours ago, and as it was possible he might be here by this train, Huntly promised to be at the station to meet him."
"And how is he, papa? how is poor Steven going on?" said Mrs. Deering, when they had got out of the carriage. "You are to wait for us;" this to the lad who had driven them from the station. "How is he? Lord Petres' telegram was so short, and we were so extremely anxious, that—"
"Papa," interrupted Katharine, in a strange, compressed sort of voice (she was standing almost on the spot where she had stood with Steven that night she had rejected him, two years ago; there was the mulberry, whose boughs he had lifted aside for her to pass; there were the old-fashioned flower-plots; there was the low farm house, alas, with unaccustomed lights shining in its windows to-night), "tell me the worst; is Steven—"
"Steven has had as narrow an escape as ever man had of his life," cried the Squire, quickly. "Still, Kate, you know we must trust in Providence, and Huntly seems to speak well about the broken arm, and—and for the rest we must await the opinion of the London surgeon. The poor fellow suffers horribly when we attempt to move him," went on Mr. Hilliard, unconscious of the torture he inflicted upon one of his hearers; "so at Petres' request he has been left quiet down stairs, just where they first laid him. Nay, Kate," (for while he was speaking, Katharine had turned away toward the house), "Petres is here, and I will call him, if you like, to speak to you, but you had better stay outside. Huntly says the only thing we can do at present is to keep the patient perfectly quiet, and his poor old servant is watching over him."
"And how—how did it happen?" said Mrs. Deering. "A broken arm! I had no idea it was so terribly serious; Kate, dearest, Papa is right; we must not run a risk of disturbing him." Mrs. Deering would have taken her sister's hand; but again Katharine shrank away from her touch. "Was it a trial of a horse, or what? We know nothing except the sad, sad truth, that the accident took place!"
