And Rough is a great comfort, even though he has to
be away--and you know, Alie,' she went on quite gravely, 'I don't think
there _could_ have been another as good as papa, not in the same way:
he's just nearly an angel.' Alie did not disagree. 'And Roughie will be
home before your next birthday, you know.'

'I hope so indeed,' said Rosalys.

'Talking about long ago,' went on Bride, to whom eight or nine years
were still a _very_ 'long ago,' 'reminds me of dear little Celestina.
What ages it is since we have heard of her--not since the year her
father died, and we were afraid they were left rather badly off. How
strange it seems, Alie, doesn't it? that poor Mr. Fairchild should have
died and papa got well, when you think how ill papa was and that he
seemed quite well then.'

'He was always delicate--Mr. Fairchild, I mean,' said Rosalys. 'But it
was very sad; they were so very fond of him. But, Biddy, we have heard
of Celestina since then--don't you remember, mamma wrote to tell Madame
d'Ermont of their trouble, and she wrote to Mrs. Fairchild inviting them
to visit her? They couldn't go--not then--but mamma had another letter,
thanking her and telling us where they were going to live. Still all
that is a good while ago, and when mamma wrote again her letter was
returned.'

'How kind they were to us at Seacove!' said Bridget. 'I would love to
see Celestina again--fancy, she must be grown up.'

What I am now going to tell you will seem to some people 'too strange to
be true,' but begging these wise people's pardon, I cannot agree with
them. Strange things of the kind--coincidences, they are sometimes
called--have happened to me myself, too often, for me not to believe
that 'there is something in it.' In plain words, I believe that our
spirits are sometimes conscious of each other's nearness much sooner
than our clumsy bodies are. How very often is one met with the remark,
'Why, we were just speaking of you!' How often does the thought of some
distant friend suddenly start into our memories an hour or two before
the post brings us a letter penned by the dear far-away fingers!

Something of this kind was what happened now. A young man-servant came
out of the house and made his way to where the girls were.

'If you please, miss,' he said, 'a young lady is in the library waiting
to see you. My mistress is out. The lady asked for both you and Miss
Bridget.'

'Who can it be?' said Rosalys.

'How tiresome!' said Bidd