Lady St Clair was vexed at the oppression of spirits which her adopted child vainly endeavoured to conceal or repress. Everard grew daily weaker and at length his anxious mother persuaded him to allow them to accompany him to Hunsden, his country seat. Accordingly, they all left town and, in spite of constant bulletins from Emily, Alixe's dejection visibly increased.

At length they left Hunsden for Lady St Clair's cottage, but the occupations which had given Alixe such pleasure six months before had ceased to interest her. Her doves were still allowed to be fed by the gardener. Her flowers withered without being seen and the only walk she liked was a narrow green lane up which the village postman was wont to come by way of a short cut, and by constantly waylaying him she managed to get her letters 10 minutes sooner. One sorrowful day this slight gratification was the cause of alarm and anguish. She met old Jenkins as usual. He had no letters for her, but there were two for Lady St Clair.

“Take them up to the cottage,” said the anxious girl in a disappointed tone.

“I’m afeard, Miss, that one of ‘em has bad news in it,” and so saying he displayed a letter whose broad black edge and seal swam in Alixe's sight for a moment, and then became more and more indistinct. She fell to the ground.

“Oh Lord, Oh Lord!” said the poor old man. “She's swooned or dead may be, and it's all me, it's all me.” But the fresh air prevented Alixe's deadly sickness from turning into a fainting fit. She sat upon the bank and leant her head against a tree.

“Shall I send any one down from the Cottage Miss? I’ll run directly.”

“No, no, I beg you will not. I had rather not. I am quite well, – it is so hot.” He rose and returned to the garden and, going to the little summer house Charles and she had built years ago with the gardener's assistance, she wept incessantly from noon till dinner time.

And he was dead, Everard was gone! The heavy gravestones would cover him from her sight, the cold earth would be thrown over him and his name was now an empty sound to which nothing living lay claim.

“Everard! My Everard!” repeated she, as she clasped her trembling hands together.