"Think, you foolish girl! What can they think? Just that as she was too proud to go to Fernsclough, she was too headstrong to be guided by us, and went her own wilful way. You need not trouble your head about that." But Augusta was not quite happy, in spite of her mother's assurances; and Adelaide was still less so. CHAPTER IV. THOUGH Joyce Mirlees' twenty-first birthday brought some clouds and storms, it was not wholly without peace and brightness. More than a dozen letters reached her from various quarters. Her uncle did not forget Joyce, but wrote warmly and lovingly, and promised to be at The Chase before she left it. Other letters were from old friends at Welton, who did not fail to send birthday greetings and simple gifts to their former pastor's daughter. One packet, containing some beautiful fancy articles, came to her from her Sunday scholars, who had worked them for the dear teacher whose absence they regretted more and more, they said. Yet it was plain that one and all pictured Joyce amongst loving kinsfolk, and amid luxuries of every kind, for they seemed half afraid that their simple tokens of love would look very poor and mean amongst her birthday gifts in her new and splendid home. If those who had bestowed such patient labour on the dainty articles could have seen how Joyce looked at them through gathering tears, but with a glad face, and heard her soft whisper, "Not alone in the world. Not forgotten, though absent, thank God!" they would have been more than repaid. The very answering of these gave Joyce happy employment during the afternoon. Besides, she had not been without personal greetings. The very servants at The Chase had learned to love their master's orphan niece, who spoke gently, and thought of and for them, as they went about their daily duties. They ventured to offer good wishes, and one little country girl begged her to accept a pin-cushion which she had risen earlier to make for Miss Joyce. There were loving words, too, from Sarah Keene, who alternately rejoiced and wept over her nursling, bewailing her coming departure with one breath, and expressing her firm conviction in the next, that it would be overruled for good, and that her darling would be above all of them yet. There was one more letter not named hitherto, which, though full of kindness, brought some disappointment. The writer, Mrs. Caruth, said all that could be expected from an old and true friend. But there was no other message, though she mentioned casually that her son, being quite well, had rejoined his regiment instead of availing himself of the longer leave at his disposal. It was still early evening, and Joyce was in her own room, when she heard a light tap at the door, and the words, "May I come in, Cousin Joyce?"