Agnes.You are crying now, Auntie! You have nothing———
Lucy.Haven't I? What, not at the chance of losing you? So this is what brought you out so early this morning and occasioned your bright, rosy cheeks? You didn't only come to see me.
Agnes.To see you and talk to you, yes, that was all. No, by-the-by, it wasn't all. Have you seen a paper this morning? No? I thought it would interest you so I brought it round. It is bad news, not good news; your favourite author is dead.
Lucy.I am afraid my favourite authors have been dead very many years.
Agnes.I should say the author of your favourite book.
Lucy.You mean———
Agnes.Sir Harold Sekbourne.[Lucy leans back in her chair.]He died last night. Here it is; here is the paragraph.[Reads.]"We regret to announce the death of Sir Harold Sekbourne, the well-known novelist, which occurred at his town house, in Prince's Gate, late last evening." Shall I read it to you?
Lucy.No—no, give me the paper. And—and, Agnes, do you mind going down to Franklin's room, and telling her that receipt you promised her?
Agnes.For the Japanese custard? Of course I will; I quite forgot all about it. There it is.[Gives her the paper, indicating the paragraph with her finger, then geos out.]
Lucy.[Sits staring at the paper for a few seconds, then reads slowly.]"Sir Harold had been slightly indisposed for some weeks, but no anxiety was felt until two days ago, when a change for the worse set in, and despite all the care, attention, and skill of Drs. Thornton and Douglas, who hardly left his bedside, he never rallied, and passed peacefully away, at the early age of fifty-eight, at the time above mentioned. It is now thirty years ago since the
