"No bad news from home?" "No letters at all—I hope my father is not ill. They don't generally leave me so long. But then I have not written either, till yesterday." "I would not lie and conjure up imaginary ills. It is a waste of power. Whatever may or may not be the cause, you are pretty certain to picture to yourself worse than the reality. Some most commonplace reason may have prevented them from writing." "If it were anything very bad, I should hear, of course; only my father was not well when I came away." "And you have too much time for thinking. Rather solitary work, is it not? Three or four days would be all very well, or even a week, but you have some right to get tired of it now." "It won't be much longer." "I hope not. So you have been reading." Mr. Wells took up the hymnbook, glanced at its open page, and looked over the edge at Euphrasia. "Nothing else to read except this!" "That is nice enough. Why should I have anything else?" "Variety is sometimes good for people, the more so if they are in a mood to take melancholy views of things." "And you think I am in a mood to do that?" "Possibly, just in the last half-hour." Euphrasia's look was one of protest. She could not explain. She could only feel that if the thoughts which had brought tears into her eyes were "melancholy," it was a melancholy which she would fain keep for life. Mr. Wells read something unexpected in her face. "I see I used the wrong word. Not melancholy, only perhaps a little sober—a little serious. And when one is laid by, and a good deal alone, it is just possible to dwell too long at a time upon the very serious side of things. I don't say that it has been so with you at this moment, but a change of ideas might be advantageous. I should certainly like you to have some variety in your reading; and I do not see much variety within reach." He glanced round critically. "I could have asked for a book, of course." "Letitia ought not to have waited to be asked." "Oh, she was busy. There was the wedding. Please don't say anything to her." Mr. Wells gave his attention to the lame knee, and presently remarked, "Yes, it is getting on fairly well, perhaps as fast as we ought to expect. But you are too much run down yourself." "I shall be all right as soon as I get home. When may I go?" "By-and-by. You must get into another room first." "I shall like that. I mean, if I may walk. I would rather not do it at all, if it means giving extra trouble." "Is that the chief bugbear of your existence?" asked Mr. Wells smiling. "I wonder how much longer this is to go on?" sighed Mrs. Johnston, next morning. "This!" echoed her eldest son. The younger brother was a mere boy, away at school.