"I like my letters with my breakfast." "Any for me, papa ?" Harriet asked.
"One--from your governess in Paris, I think--and half a dozen for me." He glanced carelessly at the superscriptions as he laid them down.

But as he took the last he uttered a low cry; his face turned livid: he stared at it as if it had turned into a death's-head in his hand.
"Oh, papa--" She stopped in a sort of breathless affright.
Captain Hunsden rose up.

He made no apology.

He walked to a window and tore open his letter with passionate haste.
His daughter still stood--pale, breathless.
Suddenly, with a hoarse, dreadful cry, he flung the letter from him, staggered blindly, and fell down in a fit.
A girl's shrill scream pierced the air.

She sprung forward, thrust the letter into her bosom, knelt beside her father, and lifted his head.
His face was dark purple, the blood oozed in trickling streams from his mouth and nostrils.
All was confusion.