dered on foreign service; but whether he has or has not been
successful in his search she is supremely ignorant.

Brooklyn, her dear old home, having been discovered on her
grandfather's death to be still in the market, has been bought back for
her by Mr. Buscarlet, and here Letitia--with her children and
Molly--feels happier and more contented than she could ever have
believed to be again possible.

Seated at breakfast, watched over by the faithful Sarah, without
apparent cause for uneasiness, there is, nevertheless, an air of
uncertainty and expectation about Mrs. Massereene and her sister that
makes itself known even to their attendant on this particular morning
in early April of which I write.

In vain does Sarah, with a suppressed attempt at coaxing, place the
various dishes under Miss Massereene's eyes. They are accepted,
lingeringly, daintily, but are not eaten. The children, indeed,
voracious as their kind, come nobly to the rescue, and by a kindly
barter of their plates for Molly's, which leaves them an undivided
profit, contrive to clear the table.

Presently, Molly having refused languidly some delicate steaming cakes
of Sarah's own making, that damsel leaves the room in high dudgeon, and
Molly leans back in her chair.

"Tell me again, Letty, what you wrote to him," she says, letting her
eyes wander through the window, all down the avenue, up which the
postman must come, "word for word."

"Just exactly what you desired me, dear," replies Letitia, seriously.
"I said I should like to see him once again for the old days' sake,
before he left England, which I heard he was on the point of doing. And
I also told him, to please you,"--smiling,--"what was an undeniable
lie,--that, but for the children, I was here alone."

"Quite right," says Miss Massereene, unblushingly. Then, with
considerable impatience, "Will that postman _never_ come?"

All country posts are irregular, and this one is not a pleasant
exception. To-day, to create aggravation, it is at least one good
half-hour later than usual. When at length, however, it does come, it
brings the expected letter from Luttrell.

"Open it quickly,--quickly, Letty," says her sister, and Letitia
hastens and reads it with much solemnity.

It is short and rather reckless in tone. It tells them the writer,
having effected the desired exchange, hopes to start for India in two
weeks at furthest, and that, as he had never at any time contemplated
leaving England