ond ring was missing on Edna's finger; some brilliant emerald and
ruby rings had replaced it.

Edna continued in this unsatisfactory state for weeks and not once did
she open her lips, even to her mother, on the subject of her broken
engagement. Every morning she made her plans for the day. It seemed to
Bessie as though air and movement were absolutely necessary to her. When
the morning ride was over she would arrange to drive her mother or
Bessie to some given place, and the intervening hours were always spent
in tennis or archery. When the evening came she would often lie on the
drawing-room couch in a state of exhaustion, until she compelled herself
to some exertion.

"Oh, how stupid every one is!" she would say, jumping up in a quick,
restless manner. "Ritchie, why don't you think of something amusing to
do? Bessie, I hate those dreamy old ballads; do come and play some game.
Mamma," she exclaimed, one evening, "we must have a regular picnic for
Bessie; she has never been at a large one in her life. We will go to
Ardley, and Florence shall take her violin, and Dr. Merton his cornet,
and we will have a dance on the turf; it will be delightful."

Well, to please her, they talked of the picnic, and Richard
good-naturedly promised to hire a wagonette for the occasion, but she
had forgotten all about it the next day, and there was to be an archery
meeting in the long meadow instead.

"Bessie, she is killing herself," exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, for in those
days she found Bessie a great comfort. "Do you see how thin she is
getting? And she eats next to nothing; she is losing her strength, and
all that exercise is too much for her. The weather is too hot for those
morning rides. I must speak to Richard."

"She does not really enjoy them," replied Bessie; "but I think she feels
better when she is in the air, and then it is something to do. Mrs.
Sefton, I want to speak to you about something else. I have been here
nearly a month, and it is time for me to go home."

"You are not thinking of leaving us," interrupted Mrs. Sefton, in
genuine alarm. "I cannot spare you, Bessie; I must write to your father.
What would Edna do without you? My dear, I cannot let you go."

"Hatty is not well," observed Bessie anxiously. "She always flags in the
warm weather. I don't believe Cliffe really suits her; but father never
likes to send her away. Christine wrote to me yesterday, and she said
Hatty had had one of her old fainting fits, and