to the ladies at Malvern.

'Out all day,' said Mary, 'that is well. He will get strong out
boating.'

'I hope Herbert has come home to take him out,' said Constance.

'Or he may be yachting. I wonder he does not say who is taking him out.
I am glad that he can feel that sense of enjoyment.'

Yet that rejoicing seemed to be almost an effort to the poor mother who
craved for a longer letter, and perhaps almost felt as if her Frank were
getting out of sympathy with her grief--and what could be the good news?

'Herbert must have passed!' said Constance.

'I hope he has, but the expression is rather strong for that,' said Lady
Adela.

'Perhaps Ida is engaged to that Mr. Deyncourt? Was that his name?' said
Lady Northmoor languidly.

'Oh! that would be delicious,' cried Constance, 'and Ida has grown much
more thoughtful lately, so perhaps she would do for a clergyman's wife.'

'Is Ida better?' asked her aunt, who had been much drawn towards the girl
by hearing that her health had suffered from grief for Michael.

'Mamma does not mention her in her last letter, but poor Ida is really
much more delicate than one would think, though she looks so strong.
This would be delightful!'

'Yet, joy well-nigh incredible!' said her aunt, meditatively. 'Were not
those the words? It would not be like your uncle to put them in that way
unless it were something--even more wonderful, and besides, why should he
not write it to me?'

'Oh--h!' cried Constance, with a leap, rather than a start. 'It can be
only one thing.'

'Don't, don't, don't!' cried poor Mary; 'you must not, Constance, it
would kill me to have the thought put into my head only to be lost.'

Constance looked wistfully at Lady Adela; but the idea she had suggested
had created a restlessness, and her aunt presently left the room. Then
Constance said--

'Lady Adela, may I tell you something? You know that poor dear little
Mite was never found?'

'Oh! a boat must have picked him up,' cried Amice; 'and he is coming
back.'

'Gently, Amy; hush,' said the mother, 'Constance has more to tell.'

'Yes,' said Constance. 'My friend, Rose Rollstone, who lives just by our
house at Westhaven, and was going back to London the night that Mite was
lost, wrote to me that she was sure she had seen his face just then. She
thought, and I thought it was one of those strange things one hears of
sights at the moment of death. So I never told of it, but now I cannot
help f