Oh, the broken hearts that, have been jogged along the dirty London streets since the days when the first “Hackney” saw the light! Oh, the bright hopes doomed to disappointment, the vows made but to be broken, the agonies of anxiety, the “farewells” of very utmost anguish, of which these grumbling, creaking, four-wheelers, or rattling, springing Hansoms, might tell! For my part I don’t think I should much fancy spending a night alone in one of l hose dilapidated remains of a vehicle, “cast,” at last, as no longer possible to use, which we now and then discern in some dingy corner of a cab proprietors yard. I am quite sure I should not spend the dark hours alone. Strange shadowy visitors would occupy the other seats, and long forgotten scenes would be re-enacted within the small compass of the four wooden walk! No, assuredly, I should not fancy it at all! But to return to our special cab, or rather to its occupants. “You will be sure to write to me, Cissy dear from Cheltenham, and tell me when you really go,” said Marion.” “Oh yes, dear, of course, I shall,” replied Mrs. Archer; “and you, May,” she continued, “must let me know how you find Uncle Vere, and Harry. For he will be with you soon, won’t, he? It is so easy for him to run up to town now he is at Woolwich.” “Yes, I hope so,” answered Marion somewhat absently; then she added in a lower voice, while a slight shade of colour came over her face, “Will you, Cissy dear, be careful to send me on at, once any letters that may be forwarded to me—to Miss Freer, you know—under cover to Cheltenham?” “Certainly, I shall. But do you expect?” asked Mrs. Archer with some surprise. “I don’t know—perhaps,” replied Marion rather confusedly. Something in her tone made Cissy turn so as to see her better. Then she took the girl’s hand in hers, and said gently, very gently: “My dearest, is there anything you are anxious about? Once or twice lately I have half suspected something, but you are not like most girls, silly and not to be trusted. Indeed I often fancy you are much wiser than I, and I could not bear to pry into your confidence. But now, darling, we shall not see each other for so long—perhaps indeed—but no, I won’t he gloomy. Won’t you tell me if there is anything? Any special letter you are expecting?” “I can’t tell you just now, Cissy. Indeed I can hardly say there is anything to tell. When, or if, there is I will write to you at once. I promise you this, dear Cissy.” “Or if I can help you in any way?” suggested Cissy rather timidly. “Yes, if you could, I would as you to do so sooner than any one.” “Only one word more, May. You wouldn’t go on screening Harry at the expense of your happiness? You know how I mean, dear. You would not allow this idea of your being only a governess to remain in any one’s mind so as to cause injury to your own prospects? Promise me this, for if not I shall never forgive myself for having given in to this scheme of yours at Altes.”