“I wonder that one of your sisters----” he began, when the door opened and admitted the two ladies in question. They were cold, tired, longing for tea, and offered no serious resistance to Mr. Crabbe’s immediate departure. He held Fairy’s hand in his for several seconds, as if reluctant to release it, and he gave it a faint but distinctly perceptible pressure as he said, “I will not say, ‘Bon voyage,’ but, ‘Au revoir.’ Remember your promise,” and hurried away. It was noticed by her relations that Fairy was unusually silent all that evening. She seemed buried in thought, and her pretty white forehead was actually knit into wrinkles, as she stitched with deft and rapid fingers. To tell the truth, the young lady was carefully weighing the pros and cons respecting her Eastern trip. She lay awake for hours that night, revolving various questions in her busy little brain. On one hand, she would escape from Hoyle and enjoy a gay and novel existence. She would be taken to balls and parties, and be the cynosure of all eyes; she would have plenty of pocket-money, plenty of pretty dresses, plenty of luxuries--that was one side of the shield. On the reverse, she mentally saw a hateful journey by sea, an unaccustomed life and climate, an ever-haunting dread of fever, cholera, snakes; she would probably have to accustom herself to riding wild ponies, to being borne along the brinks of frightful precipices; she would have no one to pet her and hunt up her things, and do her hair and mend her gloves--yes, she would miss Honor dreadfully. Mr. Crabbe had assured her that India was the grave of beauty. Supposing she became a fright! Dr. Banks had hinted at shattered health. No, after all, she would remain at home; her aunt and uncle would be in England in a year’s time, she would pay them a nice long visit without risking either health or looks; then there would be _Rowena_, a lasting and substantial triumph! She had visions of her picture hanging on the line in the Royal Academy, and guarded by police in order to keep the surging mob of admirers at bay, of crowds gazing spell-bound at her portrait, of notices in the society papers, of photographs in shop windows, of wide celebrity, and the acknowledgment of her beauty in the face of all England. The prospect was intoxicating. Towards dawn she fell asleep, and enjoyed delightful dreams. The next morning, ere descending to breakfast, she called her sisters into her room, and said, in an unusually formal manner-- “Jessie and Honor, I may as well tell you that I have changed my mind, and given up all idea of going to India, so I thought you ought to know at once.” “I am delighted to hear it,” replied Jessie, with unaffected relief. “But why?” surveying her with questioning eyes. “Why have you so suddenly altered your plans?”