not in vain. Mr.
Egremont amused himself with a little ridicule at his wife's quixotry,
and demanded whether Flossy Houghton was a promising convert; but
confessed himself very glad that the poor thing should be off their
hands, declaring that it was quite time her own people looked after
her, and happily he recollected her maiden name. So the letter was
written, after numerous attempts at expressing it suitably, explaining
Mrs. Houghton's illness and the yearnings she was too proud and ashamed
to express to her sister, and was answered at once by a few short words
of earnest gratitude, and an assurance that Miss Reade was preparing to
start at once. Could Mrs. Egremont meet her and prepare her sister?

To Alice's disappointment this could not be. Mr. Egremont had invited
some friends to the villa, and would not spare her. She could only
send a note, assuring Miss Reade that she believed that preparation
would do more harm than good, and she waited and watched anxiously. A
card came by the post in Mrs. Houghton's scrawled writing. 'Naughty
little wretch!' was all it said, but thence she gathered hope.

The spring was advancing, and Mr. Egremont was in haste to be gone, but
Alice obtained one more run to Mentone, and once more climbed up the
dark and dirty stairs to the room, where the well-known voice answered
her tap, 'Come in! Ah, there she is, the wicked little angel!'

A substantial little roly-poly business-like little woman hurried
forward with tearful eyes and outstretched hands. 'Oh, Mrs. Egremont!
can I ever thank you enough?'

'You can't, Anne, so don't try. It will be a relief to all parties,'
interposed Mrs. Houghton. 'Sentiment is not permitted here.'

Nevertheless she hugged Alice almost convulsively. She was sitting in
a comfortable arm-chair, one about which Mrs. Egremont knew something,
and the whole aspect of the room had changed indescribably for the
better, as much indeed as Mrs. Houghton's own personal array, which had
no longer the desolate neglected look of old.

A little stool was close to her chair, as if the two sisters could not
bear to be far apart, and the look of love and content in their eyes as
they turned to one another was perfect joy to Alice. She had no longer
any doubt that Anne Reade, who had found the wanderer yet a great way
off, would yet bring her back to the home, spiritually if not outwardly.

Mrs. Houghton spoke, of better rooms when the winter visitors had