l eighteenpenny dinner
at Roches. I'll stand treat."

It was after dinner, as the two girls waited for Milly's omnibus, that
the word of the evening was spoken.

"I do hope you'll have a good quiet time," Milly said; "and it really is
a good place for work. Poor Edgar did a lot of work there last year.
There's a cabinet with a secret drawer that he said inspired him with
mysterious tales, and---- There's my 'bus."

"Why do you say _poor_ Edgar?" Jane asked, smiling lightly.

"Oh, hadn't you heard? Awfully sad thing. He sailed from New York a
fortnight ago. No news of the ship. His mother's in mourning. I saw her
yesterday. Quite broken down. Good-bye. _Do_ take care of yourself, and
get well and jolly."

Jane stood long staring after the swaying bulk of the omnibus, then she
drew a deep breath and went home.

Edgar was dead. What a brute Milly was! But, of course, Edgar was
nothing to Milly--nothing but a pleasant friend. How slowly people
walked in the streets! Jane walked quickly--so quickly that more than
one jostled foot-passenger stopped to stare after her.

She had known that he was coming home--and when. She had not owned to
herself that the constant intrusion of that thought, "He is here--in
London," the wonder as to when and how she should see him again, had
counted for very much in these last days of fierce effort and resented
defeat.

She got back to her rooms. She remembers letting herself in with her
key. She remembers that some time during the night she destroyed all
those futile beginnings of stories. Also, that she found herself saying
over and over again, and very loud: "There are the boys--you know there
are the boys." Because, when you have two little brothers to keep, you
must not allow yourself to forget it.

But for the rest she remembers little distinctly. Only she is sure that
she did not cry, and that she did not sleep.

In the morning she found her rooms very tidy and her box packed. She had
put in the boys' portraits, because one must always remember the boys.

She got a cab and she caught a train, and she reached the seaside
cottage. Its little windows blinked firelit welcome to her, as she
blundered almost blindly out of the station fly and up the narrow path
edged with sea-shells.

Milly had telegraphed. Mrs Beale was there, tremulous, kindly,
effective; with armchairs wheeled to the April fire--cups of tea, timid,
gentle solicitude.

"My word, Miss, but you do look done up