CHAPTER XI.
GILBERT was roused from sleep by that most
imperative of all summonses, a telegraphic
dispatch; it contained the simple, but im-
pressive words, "Edith is dying. Come."
With frantic haste he rose and dressed,
almost bewildered by his feelings, and gave
orders to be driven with all speed to the
Oxford station. As the vehicle rattled up
to the entrance, a porter appeared, and
opening the fly door, called out in business-
like tones,
 "Now, sir, where for? train just starting,
sir, not a minute to spare."
 Gilbert almost threw the cabman his fare;
with the utmost expedition procured his
ticket, and in less than two minutes was being
rapidly hurried towards Barham.
 We will pass over the thoughts and feelings
such a journey was likely to produce. Those
who have undergone a similar experience (and
they are many) know them but too well, and
others will willingly dispense with so sad a
subject.