In all this time Floy had heard but once from Cranley--a few lines from Miss Wells telling of the death of Espy’s mother, and that he had gone she knew not whither. “Gone!” Floy’s heart almost stood still with grief and pain; but the next instant gave a quick, joyous bound at the thought, “It may be he has but come here in search of me.” And for days and weeks every peal from the door-bell made her heart beat fast and sent a quiver through her nerves. But he came not; and remembering that he could have no clue to her residence unless through the Leas, who had disappeared from society and probably from his knowledge, she called herself a fool for having indulged any such expectation. The poor girl had grown very weary in body and mind, and oh, so homesick! Ah, could she but go back for a little while to the old haunts and look again upon the dear graves of her loved ones! But for that she had neither time nor means. One day in July there came a summons for Floy from Madame Le Conte; bereavement had come upon the wealthy widow, so the note stated, and Floy’s services were wanted in the making up of mourning. “Bereaved!” the girl said to herself in surprise; “she told me she had not a relative or friend in the world.” “Humph! I was giving the Madame credit for being considerate for once in her life in choosing a slack time to send for you, Miss Kemper,” said Mrs. Sharp, refolding the note and tossing it from her after reading it aloud, “but it being a death, of course she didn’t choose.” “It’ll be a change for you, and I hope will do you good,” said Hetty, who had for some time past noticed with concern Floy’s increasing languor. “You’ve found the heat of the city hard to bear, not being used to it as we are; and this--so far out, and close to the lake shore too--will be like a taste of the country.” “Yes,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough in her slow way, “it’s quite a providence. What is it Shakespeare says? or is it in the Bible now?” she queried meditatively. “What, Aunt Sarah?” asked Araminta pertly, while Lucian “Haw hawed!” and exclaimed in loud, rough tones: “Well, I declare, Aunt Sarah! it’s a sin and a shame that you haven’t a full set of Shakespeare’s works, seeing there’s nobody tries to quote him oftener.” The young people were at home again for the summer holidays; the time was directly after dinner, and all the family, excepting John and his father, were in the sitting-room at the moment. Hetty treated the rude boy to a severe look, and seemed more than half inclined to box his ears. “Well, it’s quite true that my memory isn’t what it used to be,” sighed her mother, “but it’s something about the wind and the shorn lamb, and I rather think it’s in the Bible.” “It’s Sterne, mother,” said Hetty. “‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.’”