meantime she fulfilled her primitive use with the most thorough completeness. She was the life of the house. Mrs. Eastwood had brought in some letters with her to the drawing-room. They had been delivered at luncheon, and as none looked very pressing, they had been suffered to wait. This happy household was in no anxiety about its letters. That continual fear of bad news which afflicts most of us had no place in the bosom of the easy soul who had but one of her children absent from her, and he within half-an-hour by railway. She went over them at leisure, reading here and there a few words aloud. “Fancy, Nelly, Claude Somerville is going to be married at last,” she said. “I wonder if his people will think her good enough; but indeed they will never think any one good enough; and poor little Mary Martin is going out as a governess. Now, how much better if Claude had married her, and saved such a sad experiment?” “But did they ever care for each other?” asked Nelly, with open eyes. “No, I don’t think they did. But what a nice arrangement it would have been! Whereas the girl he is going to marry is an heiress,” said Mrs. Eastwood, “and has no need of him, so to speak. Dear me! I do not mean to speak against Providence; but I should like sometimes to interfere.--Listen! ‘Poor little Mary bears up very bravely. She pretends to make light of it; but what a change it will be from her home, and her father who spoilt her?’” “Mamma, let us have her here on a long visit,” cried Nelly. “I am sure if she chose she might spend her life among her friends.” “She is a very independent little thing,” said Mrs. Eastwood doubtfully. “Frederick and she were once rather good friends; but you may write to her if you like, Nelly. It will always be kind. The Claude Somervilles are going to Italy for their wedding trip. Dear me! why can’t people stay at home? one hears of nothing but Italy. And, speaking of that, here is an Italian postmark. I wonder who it comes from.” A few minutes passed, and Mrs. Eastwood made no further communication. “Where is it from?” Ellinor asked twice, not caring to be kept in suspense, for the correspondence of the house, like other things, was in common. Her mother, however, made no reply. She uttered various half articulate exclamations--“Dear me! dear me! Poor man; has it really come to that!” she murmured as she read. “What is it, mamma!” said Ellinor. Mrs. Eastwood read it all over, cried out, “Good gracious, Nelly!” and then turning back to the first page, read it over again. When Nelly found it impossible to bear this suspense any longer, she rose and went behind her mother’s chair, and looked over her shoulder: “Is it bad news?” she cried, looking at the cramped lines which she could not make out. “Dear! dear me! dear me! what shall I do, Nelly?” said Mrs. Eastwood, wringing her hands; and then she added, “Don’t write to Mary Martin, my dear, here is some one to be looked to of our own.” CHAPTER II.