‘I should like that very much,’ said Lucille. Mr. Sivewright was consulted when Lucius paid his visit next morning; and, on being told the circumstances of the case fully, was tolerably complaisant. He was still ‘grandpapa’—nobody had any idea of deposing him from the sway and masterdom that went along with that title. ‘I suppose you must take her,’ he said reluctantly, ‘though the house seems miserable without her. Such a quiet little thing as she is too! I couldn’t have believed her absence would make so much difference. But if you’re going to establish her claim to a fine fortune, I suppose I shall soon lose her. Miss Glenlyne will be ashamed of the old bric-à-brac dealer.’ ‘Ashamed of you, grandpapa,’ cried Lucille, ‘when you’ve taken care of me all these years, and educated me, and paid for everything I’ve ever had!’ ‘Taken care!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh. ‘I believe the care has been on the other side. You’ve brightened my home, little girl, and crept into my heart unawares, though I tried my hardest to keep it shut against you.’ Lucille rewarded this unusual burst of tenderness with a kiss, to which the cynic submitted with assumed reluctance. They went to Brighton by an early train next day, accompanied by Janet, who had consented to stay for a few days in her brother’s unlovely abode, before going back to Flossie. That idolised damsel had been left to the care of old nurse Sally, who guarded her as the apple of her eye. It was pleasant weather for a hasty trip to Brighton. The rush and riot of excursion-trains had ended with the ending of summer. Lucius and his two companions left London-bridge terminus comfortably and quietly in a quick train, with a carriage to themselves. The day was bright and sunny; the deepening tints of autumn beautified the peaceful landscape; the air blew fresh and strong across the downs as the train neared Brighton. Janet sat in her corner of the carriage grave and somewhat silent, while the others talked in low confidential tones of the past and the future. Where love is firm hope is never absent, what shadow soever may obscure life’s horizon. Lucius and Lucille, happy in each other’s society, forgot all the troubles and perplexities of the last few months. But Janet had not yet recovered from the shock of that meeting in the hospital. She was still haunted by the last look of her husband’s dying eyes. They arrived at Brighton before noon, at too early an hour for a first visit to an elderly lady like Miss Glenlyne. So they walked up and down the Parade for an hour or so, looking at the sea and talking of all manner of things. Janet brightened a good deal during this walk, and seemed pleased to discuss her brother’s future, though she studiously avoided any allusion to her own. ‘You must not go and bury yourself at Stillmington again, Janet; must she, Lucille?’ Lucius said by and by. ‘The place is nice enough—much nicer than London, I daresay; but we want you to be near us.’