the brothers or sisters or to their children. For, in spite of everything, she was fond of all of them, they were still her brothers and sisters. Despite all the misunderstanding, the lack of harmony, the ill-feeling, she was fond of all of them, felt herself to be of one blood with them. . . . Oh, how lonely she was! . . . And perhaps, very soon, she would have to be all alone like that, all her life long: without Mamma, dead; without Henri, dead; without Addie, dead! . . .
She stared into the fire and shivered in its ruddy glow, while the shuddering horror gripped her in its sharp clutches. But a bell jangled loudly . . . and she felt a shock of apprehension passing through her; her breath was almost a scream: were they bringing Addie home dead? . . .
Truitje opened the hall-door: thank goodness, she heard his voice. She sank back in her chair; the door of the room opened; and he stood on the threshold, laughing:
"I daren't come in, Mummy, I'm dripping wet. I'll go and change first. Did you ever see such weather?"
She smiled; he shut the door; and—she couldn't help it—she began to sob. When he came down a quarter of an hour later, healthy, vigorous, smiling, he found her in tears:
"What is it, Mummy?"
"I don't know, dear. . . ."
