“Yes; I didn’t hear from him for a long time. He told me afterwards that he had beea at the point of death.” “I hope you will let me have your _Twelfth Night_ when it appears,” Ada said, after a short silence. “With pleasure; if only you will promise to keep me apprised of your own publications. Ah me! how delightful it is to talk literature! I with difficulty part from you, Miss Warren; I could gossip through the day. If I only durst invite you in Mrs. Vissian’s name to take a cup of tea at the rectory this afternoon. It would be a charity. You have never seen my books, I believe; I have one or two things you would not disdain to look at; one or two first editions, among them a ‘Venice Preserved,’ which Kingcote gave me.” “I will gladly come,” said Ada. “Ah, you rejoice me! I shall go about my parish with the delight of anticipation.” The tea-drinking duly took place. Mrs. Vissian was a little alarmed at the prospect of such a visitor, but went through the ceremony very well. The change in Ada surprised both the rector and his wife. “I suppose it is the thought of coming into possession,” Mrs. Vissian said, when alone with her husband. “But really I don’t envy her. It ought to be very painful to her to take everything from poor Mrs. Clarendon.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” remarked the rector, “if Mrs. Clarendon lives at Knightswell just as before. Miss Warren cannot but insist upon it.” “I couldn’t do that!” exclaimed Mrs. Vissian, shaking her head. “No, I’m sure it won’t be so. No woman who respects herself could submit to that.” “But, my dear----” “But what?” “Ah, I really forgot what I was going to say; something about Mrs. Clarendon. Never mind.” Returning to London by the first of June, Ada brought all her high spirits with her. With Rhoda and Hilda she was an affectionate sister, and outdid them both in mirthfulness. Rhoda had got over her long depression; she was in the habit of looking forward with a very carefully-concealed expectation to the not infrequent visits of a certain friend of her father’s, a gentleman of something less than forty, who was a widower, with one little boy of his own. This youngster occasionally accompanied his father, and received much affectionate attention from Rhoda; Hilda looked askance at the exhibition of his graces. The house in Chelsea had certainly a brighter air than of old. On the evening of the day after her return, Ada went to walk by herself along the river. Hilda wished to accompany her, and was surprised by her friends request to be alone. “Oh, you are thinking out another story,” Hilda exclaimed. “Yes, I am; a very interesting one.”