sobbing unrestrainedly into her handkerchief. “What—what is the matter? What bad news?” he began. “Oh, Johnny, you’ve not heard? The poor dear archdeacon !” “The archdeacon, yes? What is it—ill, is he?” “No, no; they found him on the staircase this morning; it is so shocking.” “Is it possible! Dear, dear, poor Pulteney! Had there been any seizure?” "They dont think so, and that is almost the worst thing about it. It seems to have been all the fault of that stupid maid of theirs, Jane.” Dr. Haynes paused. “I don't quite understand, Letitia. How was the maid at fault?” “Why, as far as I can make out, there was a stair-rod missing, and she never mentioned it, and the poor archdeacon set his foot quite on the edge of the step—you know how slippery that oak is—and it seems he must have fallen almost the whole flight and broken his neck. It is so sad for poor Miss Pulteney. Of course, they will get rid of the girl at once. I never liked her.” Miss Haynes’s grief resumed its sway, but eventually relaxed so far as to permit of
