A few minutes later, the two little girls had overtaken the Vicar. And, after they had exchanged greetings with him, Mavis told him her news, which she had only heard that morning, that her mother and Miss Dawson were returning to England, and were expected to arrive before midsummer. "No wonder you look so radiant," he said, kindly. Then, as Rose ran on ahead with Max, who was inciting her to throw something for him to fetch out of the river, he continued: "I remember so well the day I made your acquaintance, my dear. You were in sore trouble, and you told me you did not think you could be happy anywhere without your mother. Do you recollect that?" "Oh yes," Mavis replied. "And you said if there were no partings there would be no happy meetings, and that we must trust those we love to our Father in heaven. And you asked me my name, and, when I had told it, you said I ought to be as happy as a bird. I felt much better after that talk with you, and I have been very happy at the Mill House—much happier lately, too. I don't know how it is, but Aunt Lizzie and I get on much better now." "You have grown to understand each other?" suggested the Vicar. "Yes—since her illness," Mavis replied. The Vicar was silent. He had visited Mrs. John during her sickness, and knew how very near she had been to death's door. And he thought very likely her experience of weakness and dependence upon others had softened her, and taught her much which she had failed to learn during her years of health and strength. "Mother says Miss Dawson is quite well now," Mavis proceeded. "I am looking forward to meeting her again; I do wonder when that will be!" She glanced at her companion as she spoke, and saw he was looking grave and, she thought, a little sad. "Is anything amiss, Mr. Moseley?" she asked, impulsively. "No, my dear," he replied. "I was merely thinking of two delicate young girls who were very dear to me. They died many years ago; but their lives might have been saved, if they could have had a long sea voyage and a few months' sojourn in a warmer climate. However, that was not to be." "They did not go?" "No. Their father was a poor man, with no rich friends to help him, and so—they died." "Oh, how very sad!" exclaimed Mavis, with quick comprehension. "A trip to Australia and back costs a lot of money, I know. Oh, Mr. Moseley, how dreadful to see any one die for want of money, when some people have so much! How hard it must be! Didn't their poor father almost break his heart with grief? I should think he never could have been happy again." "You are wrong, my dear. He is an old man now, with few earthly ties, but he is happy. Wife and children are gone, but he knows they are safe with God, and he looks forward to meeting them again when his life's work is over."