“My darling,” she said, “we must strike while the iron is hot, while your father is so satisfied. Go this moment, and write before the post goes. Tell Lewis to come at once, to-morrow; he ought not to lose a day.” “Shall I, mamma?” Lucy crept a little closer to her mother, who was not forgetting her after all. “Yes, at once. I hate them all!” cried Lady Curtis with a little outburst, “taking my children from me. But I suppose you will be happier; and you know, as Arthur says, I do care--a little--for _you_.” THE END. London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street.