She felt sure now that Janet would write or come to claim her children, though she had so often declared that Janet had deliberately deserted them, and would be heard of no more. Most people believed that the boys had fallen into the Kelmer, and now lay in one of those deep holes, or pools, into which those drowned in that river generally disappeared. But Mrs. Rayburn did not believe this, though she tried to do so. Every horrid story of the oppression of children by chimney-sweeps, travelling tinkers, professional acrobats, and others, came into her head whenever she thought of the two boys; she pictured them to herself as suffering and starved and beaten, overworked and ill-used in every possible way. She had always been fond of stories of horrors, and now she paid for her bad taste, for they supplied her imagination with horrors enough to drive any one mad. Those about her said that Mrs. Rayburn cared for those children far more than any one could have expected, considering that their father was only her stepson, and by no means a creditable one, by her own showing. So passed the autumn, a few weeks being fine, and then the weather broke, and there were cold, damp days and rainy, windy nights. On the very night on which little Fred found his way to Betty's cottage with his pitiful cry for help—the very night when Frank's sweet soul passed away—there came a letter for Mrs. Rayburn. Maria brought it to her. "A letter, ma'am; and I'm sure I hope it's good news, for I can't bear to see how you fret for the poor little children." Mrs. Rayburn looked at the writing. "It's from no one I know," she said, laying it down beside her. She sat for some time plunged in very gloomy thoughts. The Earl and a party of friends were come to the Castle for some shooting, and they were just then at dinner. A door was opened, and she heard the sound of voices and laughter. She felt unreasonably angry that any one should laugh in the very same place where the boys had played so often so short a time ago. The boys, the poor little dead boys—for they were dead, and she was tormenting herself foolishly imagining them in misery and suffering—they were in heaven; and well was it for them, for it was clear that neither Janet nor their father would ever be heard of in England again. Now she felt able to read that letter, and she took it up. A strange hand, shaky and uneven. She opened it, glanced at the signature, and, uttering a low cry, fell back in her chair. An hour later, when the guests left the dining-hall, and were heard passing along the corridors to the smoking-room, the noise roused Mrs. Rayburn, who was still sitting with the letter grasped in her hand, unread. Now, making a great effort to compose herself, she began to read it. "Old Man's Ferry Farm, Gattigo, British Columbia. "MY DEAR MOTHER,