Joanna blushed slightly when Thorold made his good-natured proposition. "You are very kind, Theo," she said, gently, as she folded her white, nervous-looking hands over her skein, "but I go out so seldom, that I do not require many new dresses. I have Althea's merino, and"--eyeing her lilac silk complacently--"there is plenty of wear to be got out of my old gown yet!" "Well, you know best," returned Thorold, indifferently. If he had stated his opinion candidly, he would have suggested that the gown in question should be relegated to Jemima or the rag-bag. Well, he had done his part nobly; and now he might take up Guizot's Life. But the next moment Joanna's plaintive tones arrested him. "Theo, do you remember what day this is?" And as he nodded, she continued, mournfully, "Trist is eight-and-thirty to-day; it is actually ten years since we have seen him--ten long years." And now a slow tear or two welled down Joanna's face. "What a weary time it has been! And he and Ella have never written--not a line, not a single word, since their little girl was born." "He was going to Australia then, and he seemed to write in good spirits--we have his letter still, Joa. He was so pleased with his little daughter, and the prospect of the new berth offered him!" "Yes, but that was eight or nine years ago. Oh, Thorold, why does he never write? Do you think he has ceased to care for us?" "No, my dear, certainly not," replied her brother, kindly; for he was moved by her deep dejection. "But you know how casual and happy-go-lucky the dear old chap always was. Bad habits grow stronger as we grow older--remember that, Joa. Trist never liked making little efforts. He hated writing letters even in his school days--probably he hates it still. And yet, for all that, he may be flourishing on some sheep farm or other." But this view of the case did not comfort Joanna, and during the rest of the evening she shed silent tears over her tangled skein. And all the time, not half a mile away, a man and a child sat hand in hand over a smoky little cindery fire; the child's shivering form wrapped in an old Inverness cape. "Is it always cold in England, father? Why does not Mrs. Grimson make up a big fire?" "Well, you see coals are dear, Bet, and the stove is a small one; but my old coat is warm and thick. Why, you look as snug as a robin in its nest, or a squirrel in its hole, or a dormouse, or anything else you like to name. I wonder what Aunt Joa will think of my little Betty when she sees her?" Then the child laughed gleefully. "Shall we really find them, father?" "Of course we shall find them, my girlie; but we must not tire those poor little feet too much. Put them up on my knee, darling, and dad will rub them and keep the chilblains away." And then, as he took the tiny feet in his hand, Bet's thin little arm went round his neck.