I thank you for your last letter, and all the good wishes that were sent with it. I will not trespass on your patience; I write of news that will give you nothing but pain, and for this I am most grieved upon my errand. My dearest Georgiana, it is my sad duty to tell you that your beloved Mademoiselle Blanche was carried off this evening. We all did our best for the dear little creature, but you see, she would not eat, and though Cook and I tried every way we could and offered her every delicacy, in the end she did not seem to want to go on. I can comfort you only with the assurance that your dear little Blanche died peacefully in her sleep. I wish to Heaven that I had not been burthened with the relation of such dreadful news to you, for I know how you loved her. We will get a kitten just as soon as you get home, although I know you will say that Blanche can never be replaced in your heart. I am so very sorry, dearest Georgiana. May God bless you and sustain you in your grief.

I eagerly await your return, and that of Mr. & Mrs. Darcy, and remain your devoted friend,

ISOBEL ANNESLEY

Georgiana felt that this was, indeed, her darkest hour. Sitting alone, she reread the hateful letters containing the news of the certainties of the two inevitabilities she dreaded most in the world, and tried to collect her thoughts; tears succeeded the brief effort, which, perversely, produced only the most painful recollections of Pemberley, Blanche, Colonel Fitzwilliam, her old pony, her piano-forte—in short, every idea most likely to increase her wretchedness was immediately before her, and she knew not whether she wept most for the loss of that which represented the past, or for that which presaged the emptiness of the future.