It was from thoughts such as these that Albinia's voice aroused me to the consciousness of my unwritten letter. She was going across the room, and had paused behind my chair. "No, I have not done," I answered quietly. "One moment, please." And I dashed off, in a rapid scrawl,— "DEAR MRS. ROMILLY,— "Yes, I will come—on the 25th inst. I am afraid it will be only to disappoint your expectations; but I cannot refuse. I will at least do my best. "This is in haste, to catch the next country post. I want you to hear to-morrow morning. I will write again more fully in a day or two.—Ever yours affectionately— "CONSTANCE CONWAY." The letter went, and I was committed to the undertaking. Now, sitting alone by candle-light in my room,—mine no longer after to-day,—with packed and half-packed trunks around, I find myself doing what I have resolved not to do,—turning back to that closed page of my history, and conning it anew. I doubt if there be any occupation more vain than reading the past in the light of the present, and breaking one's heart for the things which might have been,—if only one had known! Except indeed that from the blunders of the past, one may gain wisdom for the future. God knew all the time! That is the one great comfort. He knew—and cared—and guided. Not indeed with the precise and explicit guidance, which would have come, if I had expressly waited and looked out for His hand to point the way. But He makes all things work together in the end for the good of His loved ones,—yes, I do believe, even their very blunders. A mother does not neglect to watch the hasty steps of her most heedless little one; and I know that my Father does not—did not—forget me. Nor will He. And does not the little one learn from its own stumbles to cling more to the mother's hand? I think so. Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last night of shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried and new world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close, knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say. People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and when they tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they would only count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be always sensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has me in its grip this evening. Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lord comes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, not in Him—never in Him! Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of a home shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence? CHAPTER IV. RAILWAY IMAGININGS. THE SAME. February 25. Evening.