any distinct notion of what was
to be seen there.

Rome, Florence, Naples, were but names to her, and as dim and distant as
Haiphong or Hong Kong are to many in the present day.

'Melville was in Italy,' and her interest in the country was expressed
in these words. Melville's letter, written on hearing of his father's
death, was sad enough. Weak natures like his, always find relief in
trouble by many words, and give vent to grief by vain protestations of
affection and of remorse.

Mrs. Falconer treasured the letter, and read it many times, and thought
Joyce unfeeling in expressing so little sympathy with her brother. There
could be no doubt that all his wilful disregard of his father's wishes
started up before Melville, now that it was too late to atone for them,
and for the time, as he said, "he was distracted with grief." But there
was no word of a desire to redeem the past by coming to Fair Acres and
doing his best to perform his duties there. Selfish people are not cured
by trouble of their selfishness. It commonly happens that they are more
selfish in their grief than in their joy, more self-absorbed by pain
than pleasure.

While Melville could write of his distracted condition, of his love for
his father, of his burning indignation against the wretch who had caused
his death, and of his determination to have him brought to justice,
Joyce was silent; only sometimes, when kneeling by Piers' bed, would she
allow her grief full vent; only when alone in the seat under the fir
trees would she cry out in the bitterness of her heart for the lost
father who had been so dear to her.

And there were other causes of trouble, which she could scarcely confess
to herself. Not another word had Gilbert Arundel written, not another
sign had he made of remembrance. She knew now, as the time went on, that
she loved him, and that, after all, she was nothing to him. How could
she have been so foolish? How often she had laughed at Charlotte's
fancied admirers, at her continual discovery that some one was in love
with her, but was kept back by circumstances from declaring his
devotion! For the minor canon was one of a long list of visionary
admirers, and he had been followed by the pale-faced clergyman she had
met at Barley Wood, about whom, during the few days Charlotte had spent
at Fair Acres, she had talked, till Joyce grew weary of the theme.

"Such nonsense!" she had said. "Besides, no girl ought to acknowledge
herself to be