Bessie's gray eyes had a softer look in them than they had of old; her voice had grown more gentle. Mrs. Sefton, who was at the station, hardly recognized the girl as she came quickly toward her; the black dress and crape bonnet made her look older, but when she smiled it was the same Bessie. "My dear, are you very tired?" she asked, looking at her kindly. "It is such a cold evening that I dare not let Edna come with me, for her cough is still troublesome. I had some difficulty with her, but at last I got my way. Edna is not nearly so self-willed as she used to be." But here Mrs. Sefton sighed. "Do you think Edna is really better?" asked Bessie, when the carriage door was closed, and they drove away from the station. "I do not know," returned Mrs. Sefton, in a troubled voice. "Dr. Milton assures me that there is nothing radically wrong with her health, only want of tone and a severe cold; but I cannot feel comfortable about her. She is losing appetite and flesh, and her spirits are so variable. She is not happy, Bessie, and she cannot always hide her feelings from her mother. Richard says that we can do nothing; but how are we to go on like this?" Bessie hardly knew what to answer; she was full of sympathy for the anxious mother; she knew Edna was her one thought in life, and that no happiness was possible to her if her child suffered. They were in the King's Road now, and the brightly lighted shop-windows almost dazzled Bessie. On the opposite side she could see a dark line that was evidently the sea; a dull, heavy surging of waves broke on her ear; now and then the splash of the white surf was clearly visible. "Edna is young," she said vaguely; but, after all, there was scant consolation in this truism, for the young suffer very keenly; a sense of impatience, of injustice, aggravates their pain. The old accept their sorrows more meekly; their reason comes to their aid. "Man is born to trouble," they say, and the philosophy enables them to endure at least with some show of dignity. "Yes, she is young; perhaps she may be consoled," replied Mrs. Sefton, with another sigh; and then the carriage stopped. "Our rooms are on the first floor," observed Mrs. Sefton, as they stood in the large, brilliantly lighted hall, and she conducted Bessie up the staircase and down a narrow corridor, and then into a long, well-furnished drawing-room, where they found Edna. She was sitting on a low chair, looking at the fire, but she sprang up and welcomed Bessie warmly. "My dear little Daisy, how delighted I am to see you!" she said, with something of her old animation. "Mamma, is it not delicious to have her again? Sit down there; you look tired and cold, and I mean to wait on you. Mamma, the tea is all ready, and I am going to pour it out. Take off your warm jacket, Bessie; oh, and your bonnet too; and then you will look more like yourself."