Bessie assented sullenly, but, strange to say, she had never been in better spirits than on the day after this decision had been arrived at.
On that day, however,—it was early in March,—an annoying incident happened. Mr. Scawthorne, who always dined in town and seldom returned to his lodgings till late in the evening, rang his bell about eight o’clock and sent a message by the servant that he wished to see Mrs. Byass. Bessie having come up, he announced to her with gravity that his tenancy of the rooms would be at an end in a fortnight. Various considerations necessitated his living in a different part of London. Bessie frankly lamented; she would never again find such an estimable lodger. But, to be sure, Mr. Scawthorne had prepared her for this, three months ago. Well, what must be, must be.
“Is Miss Snowdon in the house, Mrs. Byass?” Scawthorne went on to inquire.
“Miss Snowdon? Yes.”
“This letter from America, which I found on coming in, contains news she must hear—disagreeable news, I’m sorry to say.”
“About her father?” Bessie inquired anxiously.
