“If you will.  If you are not too tired.”

“Who makes tea for you in general?” she continued.

“They send it in, made.”

Sibylla busied herself with the tea, in a languid sort of manner.  In vain Lionel pressed her to eat.  She could touch nothing.  She took a piece of rolled bread-and-butter, but left it.

“You must have dined on the road, Mrs. Massingbird?” he said, with a smile.

“I?  I have not taken anything all day.  I kept thinking ’I shall get to Verner’s Pride in time for my aunt’s dinner.’  But the train arrived later than I anticipated; and when I got here she was gone.”

Sibylla bent her head, as if playing with her teaspoon.  Lionel detected the dropping tears.

“Did you wonder where I was going just now, when I went out?”

“I did not know you had been out,” replied Sibylla.

“I went to your sisters’.  I thought it would be better for them to come here.  Unfortunately, I found them gone out; and young Cheese says they will not be home until two in the morning.”

“Why, where can they be gone?” cried Sibylla, aroused to interest.  It was so unusual for the Misses West to be out late.

“To some gathering at Heartburg.  Cheese was eating apple-puffs with unlimited satisfaction.”

The connection of apple-puffs with Master Cheese called up a faint smile into Sibylla’s face.  She pushed her chair away from the table, turning it towards the fire.

“But you surely have not finished, Mrs. Massingbird?”

“Yes, thank you.  I have drunk my tea.  I cannot eat anything.”

Lionel rang, and the things were removed.  Sibylla was standing before the mantel-piece when they were left alone, unconsciously looking at herself in the glass.  Lionel stood near her.

“I have not got a widow’s cap,” she exclaimed, turning to him, the thought appearing suddenly to strike her.  “I had two or three curious things made, that they called widows’ caps in Melbourne, but they were spoiled on the voyage.”

“You have seen some trouble since you went out,” Lionel observed.

“Yes, I have.  It was an ill-starred voyage.  It has been ill-starred from the beginning to the end; all of it together.”

“The voyage has, you mean?”

“I mean more than the voyage,” she replied.  But her tone did not invite further question.

“Did you succeed in getting particulars of the fate of John?”

“No.  Captain Cannonby promised to make inquiries, but we had not heard from him before I came away.  I wish we could have found Luke Roy.”

“Did you not find him?”

“We heard of him from the Eyres—­the friends I was staying with.  It was so singular,” she continued, with some animation in her tone.  “Luke Roy came to Melbourne after John was killed, and fell in with the Eyres.  He told them about John, little thinking that I and Frederick should meet the Eyres afterwards.  John died from a shot.”