momentarily, as a kind of tribute to her reason; but without any real sense of ridicule. How her interest had shifted since yesterday, since this morning! Poor Tom’s papers lying there, carefully made up, seemed to her a year old at least, something done with and over. But Charlie, Charlie! was he being carried home to them over the sea, breathing in health and restoration from every breeze, coming to his natural place, the only son, the heir, the future head of the house? Or was he?--Marjory clasped her hands tightly together with a low cry of pain. Of all miseries on earth, I think suspense is the hardest to bear. To think that something may be happening that very moment, while you are far off, and for good or for evil can do nothing. To think that something may have happened--that the dread calm of certainty may have followed the excitement of a terrible event to the others who know; and to be unable to go out to meet the news you long for--to have nothing to do but to wait for it. There is no more common misery in the experience, at least, of women; and there is none more hard to bear. Marjory passed that dreary, restless afternoon in hourly expectation of a call from her father, but Mr. Heriot did not call her. He took no notice of the subject which he had spoken of so angrily at breakfast, when they met at dinner. When that meal was almost over, old Fleming carried to her, with voluble explanations, another letter. “Mistress Williamson has sent up to say that by some accident this was putten in to the Carslogie bag,” said Fleming. “It’s an Indian letter, and it’s come back with a man and horse, being markit ‘Immediate,’ as you’ll see, Miss Marjory. Mistress Williamson, poor body, is terrible vexed; and being an Indian letter, and markit ‘Immediate’----” “Thank you; that will do, Fleming,” said Marjory, seizing it. Oh, if she could but have rushed from the table to make herself mistress of this second message! Her heart sank down, down to the very depths. All hope seemed to die in her; yet she threw her handkerchief over it, and tried to control herself. There had been a pause, as there so often was now at that cheerless table; and Mr. Charles, who was not very quick of hearing, had put his hand to his ear, and asked, “What is it?” which called his brother’s attention to the occurrence. Mr. Heriot, who had been very silent, turned to his daughter with the angry tone which he now always employed when he spoke to her. “Why don’t you read your letter? There are no strangers here but Mr. Fanshawe, and he, I suppose, does not stand on ceremony. From India, did that blockhead say?”