'My dear, if all the ills came to us, God would show us a way to bear them. You know that He has promised so much; and His promises cannot fail.' 'Clay,' cried Mr. Hunter, returning to the room and resuming his seat, 'did any one in particular call and want me to-day?' 'No, sir. Several came, but Mr. Henry saw them.' 'Did Arkwright come?' resumed Mr. Hunter. 'I think not; I did not see him. That--lady--who was there yesterday, came again. She asked for you.' A pause. Then Mr. Hunter spoke up sharply. 'For my brother, you mean. She must have wanted him.' 'She certainly asked for you, sir. For Mr. Lewis Hunter.' Those little ears pricked themselves up, and their owner unceremoniously wheeled herself round on her stool, holding on by Austin's knee, as she faced her father. 'There was a lady came to John Baxendale's rooms to-day, when I and Dobson were there, and she asked for Mr. Lewis Hunter. At least--it was the funniest thing, papa--she saw Uncle Henry talking to John Baxendale, and she came up and said he was Mr. Lewis, and asked where he lived. John Baxendale said it was Mr. Henry Hunter, and she said no, it was not Mr. Henry Hunter, it was Mr. Lewis. So then we found out that she had mistaken him for you, and that it was you she wanted. Who was she, papa?' 'She--she--her business was with Henry,' spoke Mr. Hunter, in so confused, so startled a sort of tone, not as if answering the child, more as if defending himself to any who might be around, that Austin looked up involuntarily. His face had grown lowering and angry, and he moved his position, so that his wife's gaze should not fall upon it. Austin's did, though. At that moment there was heard a knock and ring at the house door, the presumable announcement of a visitor. Florence, much addicted to acting upon natural impulse, and thereby getting into constant hot water with her governess, who assured her nothing could be more unbefitting a young lady, quitted her stool and flew to the window. By dint of flattening her nose and crushing her curls against a corner of one of its panes, she contrived to obtain a partial view of the visitor. 'Oh dear! I hoped it was Uncle Bevary. Mamma's always better when he comes; he tells her she is not so ill as she fancies. Papa!' 'What?' cried Mr. Hunter, quickly. 'I do believe it is that same lady who came to John Baxendale's. She is as tall as a house.' What possessed Mr. Hunter? He started up; he sprung half way across the room, hesitated there, and glided back again. Glided stealthily as it were; and stealthily touching Austin Clay, motioned him to follow him. His hands were trembling; and the dark frown, full of embarrassment, was still upon his features. Mrs. Hunter noticed nothing unusual; the apartment was shaded in twilight, and she sat with her head turned to the fire. 'Go to that woman, Clay!' came forth in a whisper from Mr. Hunter's compressed lips, as he drew Austin outside the room. 'I cannot see her. _You_ go.'