There seemed an unusually full bag that morning when he emptied the contents on the hall table. He collected into a little pile all the letters for the servants’ hall, for the school-room, and for Mrs. Mandeville. Colonel Mandeville was away with his regiment. Quite at the last he discovered two envelopes bearing the small, neat handwriting which always called forth an exclamation of pleasure. "Two letters this morning from Cousin Alicia, one for Auntie and one for me!" But he faithfully finished his task, and delivered the letters to their respective owners before opening his own letter. Mrs. Mandeville frequently breakfasted with the children when Colonel Mandeville was away and there were no visitors staying in the house. Carol found her in the schoolroom. Breakfast had commenced. "You have had a big delivery this morning, Mr. Postman, have you not?" she said. "Yes, Auntie, nearly everyone has had more than one letter, and here are four for you, three for Miss Markham, one for Percy, one for Edith, and one for me from Cousin Alicia. One of your letters, too, Auntie, is from Cousin Alicia, and it is quite a fat one. Mine is quite thin. May I open it, Auntie?" "Certainly, dear, I am sure Miss Markham will allow you. We all know how little people are impatient to read their letters." Mrs. Mandeville laid three of her letters beside her plate. The one bearing the Devonshire post-mark she held in her hand, and presently drew the contents from the envelope. Her face grew very white, her hand trembled as she saw Miss Desmond’s letter enclosed another. Her eyes, suffused with tears, fell on dear, familiar writing. Was it a message from the grave--from that watery grave where the mortal remains of the brother still so dear to her had been cast? Carol meanwhile was devouring his letter, oblivious of everything else. He read: "WILLMAR COURT, S. DEVON. "_My dear Carol,_ "Something so wonderful and beautiful has happened. Yet I should not perhaps use the word ’wonderful,’ since nothing can be lost when Mind governs and controls. The letter which your dear father wrote me just before his death has at last reached me. "Evidently through a mistake at the sorting office it was slipped into the American mail-bag at Gibraltar instead of the English. My name and address are almost stamped out, it has been to so many places in the United States of America and was afterwards sent on to Canada, where it has also visited many post-offices, before some postmaster or post-mistress remembered that S. Devon is part of an English county.