“What will you do for society?” Flora thought, solitude would be a luxury and Mrs. Ready away—and she answered, carelessly, “We must be content with what Providence sends us.” “Ah! but you may be miles from any habitation. No church—no schools for the children—no markets—no medical attendant—and with your poor health—think of that, Mrs. Lyndsay! And worse, far worse, no friends to sympathise and condole with you, in distress and difficulty.” Now Flora was answering all these objections in her own mind; and, quite forgetful of Mrs. Ready’s presence, she unconsciously uttered her thoughts aloud—“These may be evils, but we shall at least be spared the annoyance of disagreeable visitors.” Imprudent Flora—to think aloud before such a woman as Mrs. Ready. Who will venture to excuse such an eccentric proceeding? Would not the whole world blame you for your incorrigible blunder? It had, however, one good effect. It quickly cleared the room of your intrusive guest; who swept out of the apartment with a haughty “Good morning.” And well she might be offended; she had accidentally heard the truth, which no one else in the town dared have spoken boldly out. Flora was astonished at her want of caution. She knew, however, that it was useless to apologise; and she felt perfectly indifferent as to the result; for she did not care, if she never saw Mrs. Ready again; and such a decided affront would render that event something more than doubtful. “Thank heaven! she is gone,” burst heartily from her lips, when she found herself once more alone. It was impossible for Mrs. Lyndsay to contemplate leaving England without great pain. The subject was so distressing to her feelings, that she endeavoured to forget it as much as she could. The manner in which it had been forced upon her by Mrs. Ready, was like probing a deep wound with a jagged instrument; and after that lady’s departure, she covered her face with her hands, and wept long and bitterly. CHAPTER V. THE TRUE FRIEND. Flora Lyndsay was aroused from the passionate indulgence of grief by two arms being passed softly around her neck, and some one pulling her head gently back upon their shoulder, and kissing her forehead. “Flora,” whispered a sweet, gentle woman’s voice; “Dear Flora. I am come home at last. What, no word of welcome? No kiss for Mary? In tears, too. What is the matter? Are you ill? Is the baby ill? No—she at least is sleeping sweetly, and looks full of rosy health. Do speak, and tell me the meaning of all this!” Flora was in the arms of her friend before she had ceased speaking. “A thousand welcomes! dear Mary. You are the very person I most wished just now to see. The very sight of you is an antidote to grief. ‘A remedy for sore eyes,’ as the Irish say. You have been too long away. When did you arrive?” “By the mail—about an hour ago.” “And your dear sister—?”