"It will not be always work. We will have long country walks in the evening; and then, there will be the garden and the sea-shore. Of course we must have exercise and recreation, I am afraid we shall have to do without society, for no one will visit ladies under such circumstances; but I would rather do without people than without each other, and so would Nan." "Yes, indeed!" broke in Nan; and now the tears were in her eyes. Dulce grew suddenly ashamed of herself. She got up in a little flurry, and kissed them both. "I was very naughty; but I did not mean to be unkind. I would rather carry parcels, and stand in halls,--yes, and even make gowns for Mrs. Squails,--than lose you both. I will be good. I will not worry you any more, Phil, with my nonsense; and I will work; you will see how I will work," finished Dulce, breathlessly. "There's a darling!" said Nan; and then she added, in a tired voice, "But it is two o'clock; and Dick is coming this morning to say good-bye; and I want to ask you both particularly not to say a word to him about this. Let him go away and enjoy himself, and think we are going on as usual; it would spoil his holiday; and there is always time enough for bad news," went on Nan, with a little tremble of her lip. "Dear Nan, we understand," returned Phillis, gently; "and you are right, as you always are. And now to bed,--to bed," she continued, in a voice of enforced cheerfulness; and then they all kissed each other very quietly and solemnly, and crept up as noiselessly as possible to their rooms. Phillis and Dulce shared the same room; but Nan had a little chamber to herself very near her mother's: a door connected the two rooms. Nan closed this carefully, when she had ascertained that Mrs. Challoner was still sleeping, and then sat down by the window, and looked out into the gray glimmering light that preceded the dawn. Sleep; how could she sleep with all these thoughts surging through her mind, and knowing that in a few hours Dick would come and say good-bye? and here Nan broke down, and had such a fit of crying as she had not had since her father died,--nervous, uncontrollable tears, that it was useless to stem in her tired, overwrought state. They exhausted her, and disposed her for sleep. She was so chilled and weary that she was glad to lie down in bed at last and close her eyes; and she had scarcely done so before drowsiness crept over her, and she knew no more until she found the sunshine flooding her little room, and Dorothy standing by her bed asking rather crossly why no one seemed disposed to wake this beautiful morning.