“MY DEAR HARRY,--After waiting impatiently for more tidings of you than your scanty notes convey, I caught Stephen to-day, much against his will, and hoped to get him to give me your address, that I might come and see you. But nothing would induce him to tell me where you are or what you are doing, and he says you have strictly forbidden him to do so. I now appeal to you to put an end to the anxiety I am in about you, and to let me come and see you, if you will not come and see me. Stephen seems to think that you are afraid that the way you are earning your living will shock me; but indeed I think, if I were to see you with a black face after sweeping a chimney, or driving a donkey-cart full of vegetables, you would not complain of the coldness of the welcome I would give you. Please, please write to me, not one of those little hurried scrawls saying nothing, but a letter just to tell me when I am to see you again. I don’t think you would be jealous of anybody I see now, except perhaps of dear old George, whom I see nearly every day, and whom I should like much better if only he would do something, like you. I know you hate writing; but you would find time for this if only you knew how anxious I am to be sure you are well. “Your loving wife, “ANNIE.” She posted this letter under cover to Stephen; but she waited three weeks without getting any answer. At the end of that time she was surprised by a visit from Lilian, who had just returned with her husband from abroad, having been traveling some months for her health, which had broken down. She was much touched by her sister-in-law’s kindness to George, who had dined with Mr. Falconer and herself the night before, and had represented Annie as the guardian angel of the family. “Wilfred has come up to town, and he was with us too,” said Lilian. “And he talks of you just as well, and wants to come and see you, but he doesn’t dare. You are a good little thing, Annie, to keep so staid now when every one is talking about you, and when Harry has treated you so badly.” “Who told you that?” said Annie, sharply. “George. But never mind; you mustn’t be angry with him or with me. What has become of Mr. Cooke?” she asked, in a low voice. “Mr. Cooke! Oh, he is married, I believe; at least I am sure he is!” she answered, in an indifferent tone, but blushing. “Married? Oh, well, I am glad of that!” “There is no need on my account,” said Annie, haughtily. “No, no--of course not, child. Still I am glad.” “People say they get on very badly. And now he is ill, I hear.” The tears were starting to Annie’s eyes; and Lilian, whom ill health had softened, began to cry too for sympathy. Annie fought down her emotion. “Have you heard from any of the others--William or Stephen?” she asked, to turn the conversation.