Two days later Mrs. Baxendale again paid a visit. Emily was sitting in her bed-room, unoccupied, on her countenance the sorrow-stricken gravity which never quitted it. The visitor, when she had made her inquiries, seemed to prepare herself to speak of some subject at once important and cheerful.
‘For a fortnight,’ she said, ‘I have had staying with me someone whom you will be glad to hear of—your nearest friend.’
Emily raised her eyes slowly to the speaker’s face; clearly she understood, but was accustoming herself to this unexpected relation between Mrs. Baxendale and Wilfrid.
‘Mr. Athel came from Switzerland as soon as he heard of your illness.’
‘How did he hear?’ Emily inquired, gravely.
‘My niece, Miss Redwing, whom you knew, happened to be visiting me. She wrote to Mrs. Rossall.’
