"I am so sorry to hear that poor little Jean is not well. It is hard to imagine her otherwise than rosy and smiling. I think with you that probably a change of scene would do her more good than all the medicines in the world, and I see my way clear at once to carry out your proposition. My aunt, Mrs. Fay, crosses in the middle of October to join us here in Paris, and I want you to send Jean over with her. The ocean trip will be the first step toward recovery, and you must trust to our watchful care and the newness of her surroundings to complete the cure." Helen paused and Jean broke in hurriedly, a faint color rising in her pale cheeks: "Dear old Guy! how like him, always thoughtful, always tender. O Helen, yes; let me go. I would be so glad to, and I know it would do me good." "Would you be happy with Guy and his mother, Jean?" Jean's sad eyes met her sister's for a moment, and then were slowly averted. "I love them both dearly," she answered gently, "and I want above everything to go away from Hetherford. Please help me to do this, Helen. You will gain Auntie's consent." And with this reply Helen was fain to be content. She had refrained from reading aloud the closing lines of Guy's letter, which, running thus, had made her heart beat strangely: Our plans are somewhat indefinite. My aunt does not care to spend more than two months over here, and it is her intention to return home at Christmas time. If a stay of this duration should effect Jean's cure she might return with her, for there is a chance that she may be homesick so far away from you all. It would be very pleasant to return home at this sweet season. My own thoughts turn that way so often. Helen, can you never hold out any hope to me? Must this season of peace come and go, leaving my heart as lonely as ever? Must I wait forever, in strange lands, for one word from you? Forgive me if I do wrong to write you thus, but your letter has undone me. Faithfully yours, GUY APPLETON. In less than two weeks Jean Lawrence sailed for Europe under the care of Mrs. Fay. A sense of desolation inwrapped the manor. The weather was sharp and cold and the sweet warm summer seemed a dream, and every little thing that recalled it gave the girls a pang. Emily Varian had departed, and both the Hills and Andrews were about to turn their faces cityward. One crisp morning, when the wind blew fresh from the northwest, Eleanor came out from the inn with Cliff Archer at her side and started briskly forth in the direction of the parsonage. Eleanor's face wore an expression of deep dejection, and Cliff, observing this, made comment on it: "You are down on your luck." Eleanor smiled somewhat dubiously: "It is in the air, Cliff. I don't know what is the matter with us all. Our good spirits seem to have deserted us with Jean."