“You have had sorrow enough, child,” said my aunt, affectionately, “without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no other motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.”

“I know that well,” said I. “But tell me now.”

“Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?” asked my aunt.

“Of course.”

“At nine,” said she. “I’ll tell you then, my dear.”

At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse. The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand at the window, drove slowly off; we following.