her. She had already run off.

Jacinth followed her down-stairs more slowly. They had been sitting in
the elder girl's bedroom, which, with its cheerful outlook and pleasant
arrangements of writing-table and bookcases and sofa, and fire burning
brightly, was rather a favourite resort of theirs in the morning, before
Lady Myrtle was free from her various occupations. For she was a busy
and methodical old lady.

The staircase was one of the pretty features of Robin Redbreast: though
a spiral one, the steps were pleasantly shallow, and every here and
there it was lighted by quaintly shaped windows.

'How I love this house!' said Jacinth to herself, as she passed out
round the gallery, already described, on into the conservatory, even at
that mid-winter season a blaze of lovely brilliant colour. 'If--oh, if
it were going to be our home some time or other, how beautiful it would
be to look forward to! how delightful it would make mamma's coming back!
I can't bear to think of papa's having that horrid appointment up in the
north. I'd rather keep on as we are, and go out to India when I'm old
enough.'

She had loitered a moment among the flowers; the door of Lady Myrtle's
boudoir was slightly ajar; the old lady's ears were quick; she heard
even the slight rustle of Jacinth's skirts, and called out to her.

'Is that you, dear Jacinth? Come in--I have finished my letters and
accounts, and was just going to send for you.'

And as the girl hastened in, Lady Myrtle looked up with a bright smile
of welcome. It was pleasant to be thus greeted: a change from Aunt
Alison's calm unimpassioned placidity.

'Dear Lady Myrtle,' said Jacinth, 'I don't know how to tell you our
news. We have got our Christmas letters from papa and mamma; Aunt Alison
sent out a messenger on purpose with them. And Francie and I have just
read them. And--what do you think?'

She sat down on a stool at Lady Myrtle's feet and looked up in her face.
The old lady laid her hand fondly on the girl's soft hair.

'Nothing wrong, dear; I can see by your face. What can it be? Not--it
can't be that they are coming home?'

Jacinth's eyes sparkled.

'Yes, indeed,' she said; 'that's just what it is. At least it's not
quite that they're coming home for good; I wish it were. But if you
like, if it won't bother you, I'll read you mamma's letter.'

'Yes, do, dear,' said the old lady.

And Jacinth did so, congratulating herself on what had disappointed
Frances, that