trumpets," in his soul's hearing.

"We adored him," wrote Sunna, in her most fervent religious mood,
which was just as sincere as any other mood. "He was such a loving,
clever little soul, and he lay so long within the hollow of Death's
sickle. There he heard and saw wonderful things, that I would not dare
to speak of. Max has wept very sincerely. It is my lot apparently, to
administer drops of comfort to him. In this world, I find that women
can neither hide nor run away from men and their troubles, the moment
anything goes wrong with them, they fly to some woman and throw their
calamity on her."

"It is easy to see which way Sunna is drifting," said Rahal, after
this letter had been read. "She will marry Maximus Grant, of course."

"Mother, her grandfather wishes that marriage. It is very suitable.
His silent, masterful way will cure Sunna's faults."

"It will do nothing of the kind. What the cradle rocks, the spade
buries. If Sunna lives to be one hundred years old--a thing not
unlikely--she will be Sunna. Just Sunna."

During all this summer, Ragnor was deeply engrossed in his business,
and the Vedders remained in Edinburgh, as did also Mistress Brodie,
though she had had all the best rooms in her Kirkwall house
redecorated. "It is her hesitation about grandfather. She will, and
she won't," wrote Sunna, "and she keeps grandfather hanging by a
hair." Then she made a few scornful remarks about "the hesitating
_liaisons_ of old women" and concluded that it all depended upon the
marriage ceremony.

Grandfather [she wrote] wants to sneak into some out of the way
little church, and get the business over as quickly and quietly as
possible; and Mistress Brodie has dreams of a peach-bloom satin
gown, and a white lace bonnet. She thought "that was enough for a
second affair"; and when I gently hoped that it was at least an
affair of the heart, she said with a distinct snap, "Don't be
impertinent, Miss!" However, all this is but the overture to the
great matrimonial drama, and it is rather interesting.

I saw by a late London paper that Thora's lover has gone and got
himself decorated, or crossed, for doing some dare-devil sort of
thing about wounded men. I wonder how Thora will like to walk on
Pall Mall with a man who wears a star or a medal on his breast.
Such things make women feel small. For, of course, we could win
stars and medals if we had the chance. Max considers Ian "highly
pr