thankful beyond words that your future is settled. But oh, what a help
a few hundreds would be to the rest of us just now! I feel as if I
could hardly live until Friday morning, I am so anxious to hear the
news! And the mysterious condition, Ruth! Do you realise that we shall
know all about it in three more days?"

"I wonder!" sighed Ruth dreamily. Then, with sudden animation, "If it
is good news,--if either of us came in for something really big, Mrs
Thornton would wire! She simply could not wait. She is far too
impulsive!"

It was an unfortunate suggestion, as it added tenfold to the strain of
waiting. The minutes seemed to drag on Thursday afternoon and evening;
but no telegram appeared, and Mollie's heart sank heavily. She knew
better than her sister how difficult it was to make both ends meet, and
what a long and arduous task it would be to pay off the loans which had
tided the family through their time of need, and she was tired--as any
natural, high-spirited young thing would be--of all work and no play,
and eagerly longing for a respite. Mr Farrell had expressly stated
that he would not divide his property; but that did not prohibit small
legacies, and when he knew that his nearest relations were in straits,
surely--surely...

Mollie was up and dressed even before her usual early hour the next
morning, for sleep was impossible in such a whirl of nervous anxiety.
Ruth kissed her before departing to her work, and said--

"Rush down to me, dear, if there is anything good to tell. I shall look
out for you about eleven."

Mollie set about her household duties with great fervour, so as to make
the long hour pass by more quickly. At last ten o'clock struck, and
almost at the same time came the sound of the postman's rat-tat. She
flew to the door, arriving at the very moment that three letters fell
into the box.

One was of that long, narrow shape, which inevitably foretells a bill; a
second was unmistakably a circular; the third-- Mollie stared at it,
turned it over, looked at the postmark, stared at the writing again, in
a whirl of bewildered dismay. It could not be an ordinary, unimportant
letter from the children's aunt at Brighton! It could not! The thing
was impossible! Yet why, then, the address to Trix, the well-known
writing--most of all, the horrible postmark?

She put her hand to her head, wondering if it were true, or only a
horrible nightmare that Mrs Thornton had not written, afte