'It is one of those dispensations,' he said, 'that no one can guard against. We can only be thankful for the years of joy that no one can take from us, and try to be worthy to meet him hereafter.' Mrs. Morton had wept so much that she was very glad to seize the first excuse for wishing good-night. She said that she had put all Michael's little things in a box in his father's room, for him to take home to his mother, and bade Frank--as once more she called him--good-night, kissing him as she had never done before. The shock had brought out all that was best and most womanly in her. That box had an irresistible attraction for Frank. He could not but open it, and on the top lay the white woolly, headless dog that had been Mite's special darling, had been hugged by him in his slumbers every night, and been the means of many a joyous game when father and mother came up to wish the noisy creature good-night, and 'Tarlo' had been made to bark at them. Somehow the 'never more' overcame him completely. He had not before been beyond the restraint of guarding his feelings for Mary's sake; and, tired with the long day, and torn by the evening's narration, all his self-command gave way, and he fell into a perfect anguish of deep-drawn, almost hysterical sobbing. [Picture: 'What?' and he threw the door wide open] Those sobs were heard through the thin partition in Ida's room. They were very terrible to her. They broke down the remnant of her excuse that the child was an imposition. They woke all her woman's tenderness, and the impulse to console carried her in a few moments to the door. 'Uncle! Uncle Frank!' 'I'm not ill,' answered a broken, heaving, impatient voice. 'I want nothing.' 'Oh, let me in, dear uncle--I've something to tell you!' 'Not now,' came on the back of a sob. 'Go!' 'Oh, now, now!' and she even opened the door a little. 'He is not drowned! At least, Rose Rollstone thinks--' 'What?' and he threw the door wide open. 'Rose Rollstone is sure she saw him with Louisa Hall in London that day,' hurried out Ida, still bent on screening herself. 'She's gone to Canada. It's there that Herbert is gone to find him and bring him home!' 'And why--why were we never told?' 'You were too ill, uncle, and Rose did not know about it till she came home. Then she told Herbert, and he hoped to find him and write.' 'When was this?' 'When Herbert came home--the 29th or 30th of June,' said Ida, trembling. 'He _must_ find him, uncle; don't fear!' It was a strange groaning sigh that answered; then, with a great effort-- 'Thank you, Ida; I can't understand it yet--I can't talk! Good-night!' Then, with an afterthought, when he had almost shut his door, he turned the handle again to say, 'Who did you say saw--thought she saw--my boy? Where?' 'Rose Rollstone, uncle; first at the North Station--then at Waterloo! And Louisa Hall too!' 'I thank you; good-night!'