That morning Roma could settle herself to nothing. So she gave herself up to the pleasure of the child, and walked with her through the old-fashioned garden, with its affluence of rose bushes, shrubs, vines, and flowers of every description, though only the earliest were now in bloom, with its many sorts of sweet herbs and its many small fruits, the whole garden fenced in by a thick hedge of raspberry bushes, now in full blossom. Owlet looked at them with amazed delight, turning her enchanted eyes from the white blooming hedge of raspberry bushes to the white blossoming bed of strawberry vines, and murmuring softly to herself: “Oh, what glory! what glory! what glory!” Roma could walk beside her and take care of her, but could scarcely enter into sympathy with her. Her anxiety grew more and more intense and absorbing as the morning wore on toward the hour at which she might expect the return of the carriage with Will Harcourt. That would, at the latest, be at half-past twelve. She had ordered dinner to be ready as early as two o’clock, thinking that would be better than a luncheon for the tired traveler. At twelve o’clock she led little Owlet back to the house, and leaving the child to amuse herself with her pup, sat down at one of the front windows that commanded a view of the avenue leading to the house, to watch for the approach of the carriage. Presently she saw the carriage coming. All her powers of self-control could not lessen the violent beating of heart and brain, or dispel the cloud that came over her sight, or still the tremor of her whole frame. She left the window and hurried to the door. The carriage drove up the avenue and drew up before the house. There was no one in it! For a moment the strong woman grew faint with disappointment and dark foreboding, but with an effort she recovered herself, and recollected that he might yet come by the 4 P.M. train, or even by the 10 P.M. The coachman got down from his box and said: “Dere wasn’t nobody at all got out’n de keers at Goeberlin, mist’ess.” “Did you remember to call at the post office?” inquired the lady. “Sartin, mist’ess, an’ fetched dis letter—on’y one letter, an’ no papers nor pamfits. W’ere did I put dat letter ag’in?” inquired the man, in perplexity, as he searched pocket after pocket in vain, while Roma stood waiting—consuming with anxiety. “Oh, yere it is, arter all, in de linin’ ob my hat!” exclaimed Pompous, finding the letter and handing it to his mistress. She knew the handwriting. It was Will Harcourt’s. It was the first communication he had made to her since that night of their wedding day, when he had left her on the threshold of their home at Guyon Manor House to attend Hanson to the boat, as she thought, but after which he was mysteriously lost to her and to all her friends, until he had suddenly appeared at Lone Lodge. And even this communication had only been made on her own demand.