“Because Miss Swinton said papa was going to write me a letter, and that I would get it to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow. A whole big letter to myself--a letter from papa, all the way from India--oh, Miss Maxwell!” Lilias trembled a little; a slight painful shiver, as if of cold. She remembered well the time so long marked and looked for. “The night is getting chill,” said Mrs Buchanan; “I think we must go in now; and come tell me, little Mary, about these great designs of yours.” “Mary is very little,” said Hope, apologetically, taking the vacant place by the side of Lilias; “she says just what comes into her head, you know, Miss Maxwell.” “And do _you_ not say what comes into your head, Hope?” “But then I am not like Mary, Helen,” said Hope promptly; “I am fifteen--I know--at least I should know better than little Mary. Do you know when Mossgray is coming back, Miss Maxwell?” Lilias shivered again. “No, Hope.” Poor Hope! she was not so very much wiser than little Mary, after all. The harvest moon had risen; the night was considerably advanced; Mrs Buchanan had set out with Hope and the child some time since; Helen and Lilias were alone. They were sitting together in the deep recess of one of those old-fashioned windows, and the room was perfectly dark, save for the broad, full moonlight which made bars of silver light across the gloom. They were speaking in the hushed tone which people instinctively adopt at such times, and Helen was endeavouring to keep the attention of Lilias occupied, although her broken answers and unconnected words showed how ill she accomplished it, and frequent starts and intervals of listening evinced the anxiety of both. “Let us have lights, Lilias,” said Helen; “it is not good this--it will do you harm.” “Yes,” said Lilias, vacantly--“I mean, wait a little--only wait a little, Helen.” She had repeated the excuse again and again, and now grasping her friend’s arm with those tightened fingers, she bent her pale head in the full mellow moonlight, and listened, shivering with the chills and starts of expectation. There was a slight noise below. “There is some one coming, Helen,” and the trembling fingers tightened in their eager grasp. “It is not Halbert--it must be Mossgray--hush!” “It is only Janet moving below,” said Helen. “Hush--listen! it is Mossgray! but I dare not go to meet him. Stay with me, Helen--stay till he comes! Now--now--it will be over now!” And speaking incoherent words of prayer, Lilias held her eager friend tight, so that she could not escape, and turned her own bowed head towards the door. Lightly up the stair came the elastic footstep, and Mossgray opened the door gently, and stood before them in the grace of his old age, the moonbeams mingling with his white hair. “Where are you?” said the old man, looking into the dark shadows of the room. “Helen, is she strong? can she bear joy?” “Mossgray!”