od to me--to have them both given back to me in
one day--both of them in one day--"

"Natalie," said he, gently, "it is only a possibility, you know."

"But it is possible!" she said; and there was a quick, strange, happy
light in her face. "It _is_ possible, is it not?"

Then she glanced at her mother; and her face, that had been somewhat
pale, was pale no longer; the blood mounted to her forehead; her eyes
were downcast.

"It would please you, would it not?" she said, somewhat formally and in
a low and timid voice. The mother, unobserved, smiled.

"Oh yes," he said, cheerfully. "But even if I go to America, expect
your mother and you to be arriving at Sandy Hook; and what then? In a
couple of years--it is not a long time--I should have a small steamer
there to meet you, and we could sail up the bay together."

Luncheon over, they went to the window, and greatly admired the view of
the gardens below and the wide river beyond; and they went round the
room examining the water-colors, and bits of embroidery, and knickknacks
brought from many lands, and they were much interested in one or two
portraits. Altogether they were charmed with the place, though the elder
lady said, in her pretty, careful French, that it was clear no woman's
hand was about, otherwise there would have been white curtains at the
windows besides those heavy straight folds of red. Brand said he
preferred to have plenty of light in the room; and, in fact, at this
moment the sunlight was painting squares of beautiful color on the faded
old Turkey-carpet. All this time Natalie had shown much reserve.

When the mother and daughter were in the cab together going to Edgware
Road--George Brand was off by himself to Brompton--the mother said,

"Natalushka, why was your manner so changed to Mr. Brand, after you
heard he might not be going to America?"

The girl hesitated for a moment, and her eyes were lowered.

"You see, mother," she said, with some embarrassment, "when one is in
great trouble and difficulty--and when you wish to show sympathy--then,
perhaps, you speak too plainly. You do not think of choosing very
prudent words; your heart speaks for you; and one may say things that a
girl should not be too ready to confess. That is when there is great
trouble, and you are grieved for some one. But--but--when the trouble
goes away--when it is all likely to come right--one remembers--"

The explanation was rather stammering and confused.

"But at