Justin, opening his eyes at them, would have pointed out with perfect justice, that they told him all about themselves when they wrote in their turn. What was the use of saying “How are you?” when he knew how they were? Besides he did not pretend to be a letter-writer. He wrote whenever there was anything to tell them. That day when he and Bellew had got the photograph of the gannet’s nest, and the rope had slipped, and he had nearly gone whacking into the sea three hundred feet below—why, he had written at once. That had been a near shave if they liked! Yes, he was having the time of his life. He wished it were not so nearly over. Only another fortnight. Bellew had to be in town again in June. After that epistle, and the extremely vivid nightmare that followed it, in which Justin dangled like a spider at the end of a rope that Laura could not hold because she had got eggs in one hand and Bellew, looking exactly like Oliver Seton, was cutting off the other with a palette knife, it was not surprising that she should have a pang when, coming up to lunch at the Priory, a perturbed maid met her with— “A telegram, Miss Laura, and the boy wanting an answer. The mistress is down the village.” “It’s from Mr. Justin, I expect. I’d better open it,” said Laura. She read and re-read it with a puzzled face, and the maid watched her. Telegrams were rare in Brackenhurst. “Where has Mrs. Cloud gone, did you say?” she asked hurriedly. “No, there’s no answer. I wonder if I’d better try and find her?” She was speaking half to herself and half to the maid. “What’s the time? It’s nearly lunch-time, isn’t it? No—no, it can wait.” And then, as the maid, an old and trusted one, was leaving the room, “Mary, don’t—don’t tell Mrs. Cloud. I mean, I’ll give her this. I’ll tell her I opened it.” Left to herself she stood nervously fingering the paper form, her eyes on the clock. She wished Justin were at home. She wished it were in Justin’s safe hands. How did one break things to people?... It would be such an awful shock.... Poor Mrs. Cloud!... She looked out of the window. No sign as yet, on the long drive, of the pony cart and poor Mrs. Cloud! She turned back into the room and, struck by a sudden idea, knelt down and pulled at the pile of volumes whose place, since time was, had been under the what-not in the corner by the door. Out they came dustily, Bible, Nursery Rhyme-book, Hymns Ancient and Modern and, delight of her childhood, the photograph album with the plush corners and the clasps. She opened it and turned the pages till she found the picture that she sought. Such a bright face!... But for the chin, the weak chin, it might have been Justin.... The lips too, were fuller, but how like Justin!... Poor boy—poor man—and, oh, poor Mrs. Cloud!... She put away the book again and as she did so heard the sound of wheels and Mrs. Cloud’s voice at the threshold.