‘Yes. Let us not speak of him. We cannot do anything for him. He would not let us; and for years to come I do not think I could bear to look upon his face. That is all I want to know. Let us read Roger’s letter now. He has got a great post, and is going to take a long holiday with us in the autumn; and then he is going to South America to manage a business there for the people he is now with.’ ‘Ah! His career, that I have prophesied for him, is beginning then,’ said Michael, as he read Roger’s letter with her, seated beside her, each of them holding a leaf. And as they sat thus, with that softened look upon their faces which comes with thoughts of a much-loved absent one, the door opened, and the servant announced Miss Wynter. They both looked up in surprise as she entered. She walked up to the table and stood looking at them with a keen, searching gaze, and her lips quivered a little as she saw the attitude of entire trust, and the look of peace and of rest upon both faces. Magdalen, like the others, was in black; she was still clad in the deep mourning she had been wearing for Miss Strangforth; perhaps in her soul she was not sorry that circumstances allowed her to wear a garb so well according with her own feelings. But it struck Eleanor that she was equipped for a longer journey than that from Balder Hall to the Red Gables. Her face was very pale, but there was no abatement—there never had been any abatement—in the pride of its expression. Whatever Magdalen’s fate, she would always carry it, to all outward seeming, with the stateliness of a queen who wears her crown. ‘You were so absorbed, you scarcely heard my name,’ she said, in her clear, rather sarcastic tones, and with a slight cool smile. ‘I am glad to find you in. I heard that Michael was coming home to-day, and I did not wish to go away without saying good-bye.’ ‘You are going away?’ said Eleanor. ‘Are you going for long?’ ‘Most likely I shall never see you again,’ Magdalen pursued. ‘It is not probable that our paths will ever cross. Indeed, I shall make it my object to prevent them from doing so.’ ‘Magdalen——’ But Michael, a little better acquainted with human nature, and especially with Magdalen’s nature, than was his wife, had already guessed, and his eyes were fixed upon Miss Wynter’s face, scrutinisingly, but with little surprise. ‘I am going to London,’ said Magdalen. ‘I intend travelling there by the south mail this evening. I have sent my things on, and called to see you on my way to the station.’ ‘To London——’ began Eleanor. Magdalen’s eyebrows contracted. She gave a short, impatient laugh. ‘How long you are in comprehending! I see Michael understood at once. Ah, Michael, if you had understood me as well seven years ago!... Well, Eleanor, I am going to Otho.’ ‘To Otho!’