or any grievance was to address himself or herself to little
Miss Colwyn. To Mrs. Brand, now more weak and ailing than ever, Janetta
was like a daughter. And secure in her love, little Julian never knew
what it was to miss a mother's care.

Janetta might have her own private cares and worries, but in public, at
any rate, she was seldom anything but cheerful. It was a duty that she
owed the world, she thought, to look bright in it, and especially a duty
to Mrs. Brand and little Julian, who would sorely have missed her ready
playfulness and her tender little jokes if ever she had forgotten
herself so far as to put on a gloomy countenance. And yet she sometimes
felt very much dispirited. She had no prospects of prosperity; she could
not expect to live at the Red House for ever; and yet, when Wyvis came
home and she had to go--which, of course, must happen some time, since
Mrs. Brand was growing old and infirm, and Julian would have to go to
school--what would she do? She asked herself this question many times,
and could never find a very satisfactory answer. She might advertise for
a situation: she might take lodgings in London, and give lessons: she
might go to the house of her stepfather. Each of these attempts to solve
the problem of her future gave her a cold shudder and a sudden sickness
of heart. And yet, as she often severely told herself, what else was
there for her to do?

She had heard nothing of the Adairs, save through common town gossip,
for many months. The house was shut up, and they were still travelling
abroad. Margaret had evidently quite given up her old friend, Janetta,
and this desertion made Janetta's heart a little sore. Wyvis also was in
foreign lands. He had been to many places, and killed a great many wild
beasts--so much all the world knew, and few people knew anything more.
To his mother he wrote seldom, though kindly. An occasional note to
Julian, or a post card to Cuthbert or his agent, would give a new
address from time to time, but it was to Janetta only that he sometimes
wrote a really long and interesting epistle, detailing some of his
adventures in the friendly and intimate way which his acquaintance with
her seemed to warrant. He did not mention any of his private affairs: he
never spoke of that painful last scene at the Red House, of Margaret, of
his mother, of his wife; but he wrote of the scenes through which he
passed, and the persons whom he met, with an unreserve which Janetta
kne