. Lessingham
took up the volume--it was Shelley--and found that the paper within it
was folded about a spray of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "House
of Meleager Pompeii. Monday, December 8, 1878." Over this the
inquisitive lady mused, until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore
things rapidly to their former condition.

A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs. Lessingham
again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the light fall
directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time. She whispered
feelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh almost as deep as
that of the slumberer, withdrew.

In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant brought
letters to the sitting-room. There were three, and one of them,
addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark. She went back to
her bedroom with it.

After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained in
her correspondence; then of a sudden asked:

"You hadn't any letters?"

"Yes, aunt; one."

"My child, you are far from well this morning. The fever hasn't gone.
Your face burns."

"Yes."

"May I ask from whom the letter was?"

"I have it here--to show you." A choking of her voice broke the
sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessingham found the following
lines:--

"DEAR CECILY,

"I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I earnestly hope I may see
you between ten and eleven to-morrow morning. I must see you alone. You
cannot reply I will come and send my name in the ordinary way.

"Yours ever,

"R. ELGAR."

Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily, who was standing before her, now met
her gaze steadily.

"The meaning of this is plain enough," said her aunt, with careful
repression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it has
come about."

"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself."

Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered all
her natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The flush
still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of embarrassment; she
spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.

"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down, little
girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it."

"Little girl?" repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile. "No;
that has gone by, aunt."

"I thought so myself the other day; but--I suppose you have met Mr.
Elgar several times at his si