Next morning Margery was later than usual, for she lingered long over her toilet, taking, as it were, a regretful leave of all the articles of luxury with which her room was filled. The white cashmere dressing-gown, with the pink satin lining, which Queenie had made her use, and the dainty slippers which matched them, were laid away for the last time. She should never more wear such garments as these, for probably she should not again be a guest at Hetherton Place. It would not be well for her to be there often, for after three weeks’ experience of a life so different from her own, there came over her for a moment a sense of loathing for her work, a horrid feeling of loneliness and homesickness, as she remembered the cottage, which she knew was so much prettier and pleasanter than any home she had ever known. But it was not like Hetherton Place, and for a moment Margery’s weaker nature held her in bondage, and her tears fell like rain as she went from one thing to another, softly whispering her farewell. Queenie was going to the village with her immediately after breakfast, and the carriage was waiting for them now, she knew, for she heard it when it came to the door, and she had heard, too, the sound of horses feet coming rapidly into the yard, and looking from her window, had seen David, Mr. Rossiter’s man dismounting from his steed which had evidently been ridden very hard. Going down to the dining-room at last she saw Reinette standing near the conservatory with an open letter clutched in both hands, her head thrown back, disclosing a face which seemed frozen with horror, and her whole attitude that of one suddenly smitten with catalepsy. At the sound of footsteps, however, she moved a little, and when Margery went to her, asking what was the matter, she held the letter toward her, and whispered faintly: “Read it.” CHAPTER XXXVII. THE LETTER. Phil’s last letter had been addressed to his mother from Rome, and in it he had written that he was to start for India the next day with a young man whose acquaintance he had made on the voyage from New York to Havre, and who had persuaded him to go for a week or two to Madras, where his father was living. Since that time nothing had been heard from Phil, until the young man whose name was William Mather, wrote from Madras, as follows: