tter had come to her
from Faith, telling of their arrival at the old cathedral city, which was
found to suit their inclinations and habits infinitely better than
London; and that she would like Picotee to visit them there some day.
Picotee felt, and so probably felt the writer of the letter, that such a
visit would not be very practicable just now; but it was a pleasant idea,
and for fastening dreams upon was better than nothing.

Such musings were encouraged also by Ethelberta's remarks as the dressing
went on.

'We will have a change soon,' she said; 'we will go out of town for a few
days. It will do good in many ways. I am getting so alarmed about the
health of the children; their faces are becoming so white and thin and
pinched that an old acquaintance would hardly know them; and they were so
plump when they came. You are looking as pale as a ghost, and I daresay
I am too. A week or two at Knollsea will see us right.'

'O, how charming!' said Picotee gladly.

Knollsea was a village on the coast, not very far from Melchester, the
new home of Christopher; not very far, that is to say, in the eye of a
sweetheart; but seeing that there was, as the crow flies, a stretch of
thirty-five miles between the two places, and that more than one-third
the distance was without a railway, an elderly gentleman might have
considered their situations somewhat remote from each other.

'Why have you chosen Knollsea?' inquired Picotee.

'Because of aunt's letter from Rouen--have you seen it?'

'I did not read it through.'

'She wants us to get a copy of the register of her baptism; and she is
not absolutely certain which of the parishes in and about Knollsea they
were living in when she was born. Mother, being a year younger, cannot
tell of course. First I thought of writing to the clergyman of each
parish, but that would be troublesome, and might reveal the secret of my
birth; but if we go down there for a few days, and take some lodgings, we
shall be able to find out all about it at leisure. Gwendoline and Joey
can attend to mother and the people downstairs, especially as father will
look in every evening until he goes out of town, to see if they are
getting on properly. It will be such a weight off my soul to slip away
from acquaintances here.'

'Will it?'

'Yes. At the same time I ought not to speak so, for they have been very
kind. I wish we could go to Rouen afterwards; aunt repeats her
invitation as usual. H