There was much news to receive and impart. In writing from Falmouth, Nancy had referred to the details of her own life with studied ambiguity. She regretted having taken Jessica into her confidence, and avoided penning a word which, if read by any one but her correspondent, would betray the perilous secret. Jessica, after her illness, was inclined to resent this extreme caution, which irritated her curiosity; but in vain she assured Nancy that there was not the least fear of her letters falling into wrong hands. For weeks at a time she heard nothing, and then would come a letter, long indeed, but without a syllable of the information she desired. Near the end of May she received a line or two, ‘I have been really ill, but am now much better. I shall stay here only a few weeks more. Don’t be anxious; I am well cared for, and the worst is over.’ She heard the interpretation from Nancy’s lips, and laughed and cried over it. ‘What you must have suffered, my poor dear! And to be separated from the little darling! Oh, it’s too cruel! You are sure they will be kind to it?’ ‘Mary has every confidence in the woman. And I like the look of her; I don’t feel uneasy. I shall go there very often, of course.’ ‘And when is _he_ coming back? He oughtn’t to have kept away all this time. How unkind!’ ‘Not at all,’ Nancy replied, with sudden reserve. ‘He is acting for the best. You mustn’t ask me about that; you shall know more some day.’ Jessica, whose face made legible presentment of her every thought, looked disappointed and peevish. ‘And you are really going in for the examination again?’ Nancy asked. ‘Oh, of course I am!’ answered the other perkily; ‘but not till summer of next year. I’m not allowed to study much yet; the doctor says I might do my brain a serious injury. I read a great deal; books that rest the mind--poetry and fiction; of course only the very best fiction. I shall soon be able to begin teaching again; but I must be very careful. Only an hour or two a day at first, and perhaps quite young children.’ Evidently the girl felt a certain pride in what she had undergone. Her failure to matriculate was forgotten in the sense that she offered a most interesting case of breakdown from undue mental exertion. The doctor had declared his astonishment that she held up until the examination was over. ‘He simply wouldn’t believe me when I told him the hours I worked. He said I ought to be on my trial for attempted suicide!’ And she laughed with extravagant conceit. ‘You have quite made friends with the Barmbys,’ said Nancy, eyeing her curiously. ‘They are very nice people. Of course the girls quite understand what a difference there is between themselves and me. I like them because they are so modest; they would never think of contradicting my opinion about anything.’ ‘And what about the Prophet?’