nd trouble at the cottage, and Mary was
sobbing in her mother's arms.

"But it seems so hard, dear," she whispered; "he's there, and waiting
hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving
words."

"That you can't go and say, dear. I know--I know, but you cannot go, my
darling. Now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. He is
certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his
face. Now come, come, do be patient and wait. Some day, perhaps, his
sight may come back, and if it did I'm sure father loves you too well to
stand in the way of your happiness."

"But you don't think as he does, mother dear, so don't say you think he
is right."

"I'm afraid I must, dear, much as it goes against me to say so. It
couldn't be, Mary--it couldn't indeed, my dear; and you know what you
told me--how sensible and wise poor John Grange spoke about it himself.
It would be a kind of madness, Mary, dear: so come, come, wipe your poor
eyes. God knows what is best for us all, and when the afflictions come
let's try to bear them patiently."

"Yes, mother," cried Mary, hastily drying her eyes. "I will be patient
and firm."

"And you see, dear, that it would not be right for you to go down to old
Hannah's. It would be, as I said, like flying in the face of father,
who, I'm sure, has been as nice as could be about all you did that day."

"Yes, mother," said Mary, with another sigh. "Then I will be patient
and wait."

"That's right, my darling. And there, now I'll tell you something I
heard from father. Poor John Grange is not forgotten; Mrs Mostyn is
trying to place him in a home, and if she doesn't, he's to go to some
friends, and she's going to pension him for life."

Mary sighed once more, a deeper, more painful sigh, one which seemed to
tear its way through her heart, as in imagination she saw the fine manly
fellow who had won that heart pursuing his dark road through life alone,
desolate, and a pensioner.

Up at the house James Ellis was not kept waiting long before there was a
rustling sound, and Mrs Mostyn came in through the French window from
the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house.

She looked radiant and quite young, in spite of her sixty-five years and
silver hair, and there was a happy smile upon her lip that brightened
the tears in her eyes, as she nodded to her agent cheerfully, and held
out a great bunch of newly-cut orchids, which she