Still in silence, I entered the little room from which I had fled in such wild haste and anguish. All the familiar objects seemed to give me a mute welcome; there were Ronald's tambourines with their bright streamers of ribbon; there were the bulrushes and the old china. On the table was my ancient silver teapot, covered by a satin cosy of my own making, and everything spoke of forethought and expectation. This was my true home; within these two rooms, my husband and I were destined, as I then believed, to spend many an hour together. When nurse had sent one of the maids to boil a new-laid egg, and had taken off my bonnet with her own hands, she began to fuss over me, and wait upon me as if I had been her little charge of long ago. I had emptied one cup of tea, and was ready for another, before she remembered that she had a message to give me. "Lady Waterville's man called with a parcel this morning, my dear," she said. "Her ladyship's love, and she wished to see you as soon as you were well enough to go to her." "I shall very soon be well enough," I answered. "But where is the parcel, nurse?" "Now drink your tea in peace like a good girl, ma'am," said nurse, authoritatively. "I shan't drink it in peace if you don't let me see that parcel," I replied. The parcel was brought, the string untied, and within the paper envelope lay an old-fashioned book, with well-preserved covers of scarlet morocco, and gilt edges. It was just such a book as one sees in the drawing-rooms of ancient maiden ladies; and to me there has always been something touching in such volumes—shrines of memories and dead loves. When nurse had gone to look after household matters, and I was left alone once more, I carried the book to the sofa and sat down with it upon my knees. Close beside me was the guitar, and a few rays of afternoon sunlight illumined its polished wood and delicate mosaic ornamentation. I toyed with it carelessly for a second or two, and then began to turn over the album leaves. Evidently poor Inez Greystock had been a woman who loved poetry and flowers. Her water-colour drawings of lilies and roses and pansies were superior to much of the boarding school art which was in vogue in her day. As to the poems, they were chiefly extracts from Byron and Shelley; all melancholy—all harping more or less on one sad string—the utter loneliness of a disappointed heart. But at last I came to one page, near the end of the book, which was gayer and brighter than any which had preceded it. A large card, with a gaily gilded pattern for a margin, was inscribed with three verses, far inferior in literary merit to the rest of the poetry in the volume; and these lines were set to music. A simple air it was, apparently written out by a careful hand—every note being perfectly distinct; and at the top of the page there were these words— "Hope: a Song for my Guitar."