rs before.

CHAPTER XVI.

JANET'S RETURN.

"There he is! there is dear Major Strickland!"

The tidal train was just steaming into London Bridge station on a
certain spring evening as the above words were spoken. From a window of
one of the carriages a bright young face was peering eagerly, a face
which lighted up with a smile of rare sweetness the moment Major
Strickland's soldierly figure came into view. A tiny gloved hand was
held out as a signal, the Major's eye was caught, the train came to a
stand, and next moment Janet Hope was on the platform with her arms
round the old soldier's neck and her lips held up for a kiss.

The publicity of this transaction seemed slightly to shock the
sensibilities of Miss Close, the English teacher in whose charge Janet
had come over; but she was won to a quite different view of the affair
when the Major, after requesting to be introduced to her, shook her
cordially by the hand, said how greatly obliged he was to her for the
care she had taken of "his dear Miss Hope," and invited her to dine next
day with himself and Janet. Then Miss Close went her way, and the Major
and Janet went theirs in a cab to a hotel not a hundred miles from
Piccadilly.

Janet's first words as they got clear of the station were:

"And now you must tell me how everybody is at Deepley Walls."

"Everybody was quite well when I left home except one person--Sister
Agnes."

"Dear Sister Agnes!" said Janet, and the tears sprang to her eyes in a
moment. "I am more sorry than I can tell to hear that she is ill."

"Not ill exactly, but ailing," said the Major. "You must not alarm
yourself unnecessarily. She caught a severe cold one wet evening about
three months ago as she was on her way home from visiting some poor sick
woman in the village, and she seems never to have been quite well
since."

"I had a letter from her five days ago, but she never hinted to me that
she was not well."

"I can quite believe that. She is not one given to complaining about
herself, but one who strives to soothe the complaints of others. The
good she does in her quiet way among the poor is something wonderful. I
must tell you what an old bed-ridden man, to whom she had been very
kind, said to her the other day. Said he, 'If everybody had their rights
in this world, ma'am, or if I was king of fairyland, you should have a
pair of angel's wings, so that everybody might know how good you are.'
And there are a hundred oth