"Perfect nonsense! Let her alone, and she'll come home--no fear of it. She was, however, keen enough to get away--off before we had breakfast--and without a word to any one." "Mother," corrected Isabel, "that was our fault. She came to bid us good-bye, but we neither of us spoke to her." "Drop the subject," said Robert in a manner too positive to be disobeyed. He himself dropped every subject, and finished his meal in a silence so eloquent, that no one had the spirit to break it. His mother looked at him indignantly, his sister kept her eyes on her plate, and ate with a noiseless deliberation, that was almost provoking. It was a most wretched meal. "And all because that creature missed meeting him at Crewe," snorted the angry mother as her son left the room. "You had better go to the library, mother, and find out what is the matter. I dare say it is business--and not Dora at all." "I will go as soon as he has had a ten minutes' smoke. He is as touchy as tinder yet, Isabel." But Robert did not go to the library. As he came out of the dining-room McNab walked up to him, and he spoke more pleasantly to her than he had yet done to any one since his return. "Good-evening, McNab," he replied to her greeting, "I hope you are well." "As well as I ever expect to be in this house, sir. My dear young mistress left these jewels in my care--fearing what happened once before, sir--and I promised to keep them safe till you came home; the same I've done. And she left this letter likewise for you, and I hope there is no bad news in it, sir, for she was breaking her heart the day she was writing it." "Breaking her heart? What about, McNab?" "They were going to take the bit bonnie bairn from her--and him every night, as like as not, having a black life-and-death-fight wi' what they ca' croup. You know, sir?" "I know, McNab. Thank you!" and instead of going to the library, he went into his own parlor, and locked both doors leading into it. Then he sat down with the letter in his hand. He looked at the neatness with which it was folded, addressed, and sealed, and he had a sudden memory of the joy and expectation with which he had once been used to receive such letters. He had no fear of bad news. He expected only Theodora's usual pleading for little David, and he thought it likely the removal of the boy's cot typified a more than common dispute concerning the child. When he finally opened the letter, a small parcel fell out of it, which he laid aside. Then he read without pause or faltering, the following words: