"There is no hurry. I do not suppose your brother will get home for another hour or two. The only question is, whether you might like time just to unpack and settle in, and to have a little rest. I should like you to look rather more fresh when he comes in and finds you there." Lettice shivered; then tried to laugh. "What will he say?" "I know what he ought to say. My dear, you will be only two streets off—quite close to us. If he did not want you, you could but come back at once. But I am not afraid, and I don't think you would be either, if you were not so weary." "Perhaps not. Prue, I'll be brave. And I think I had better go at once. I shall feel more cowardly if I wait; besides, you must have enough to see after." A fact undeniable: nevertheless, Prue insisted on seeing Lettice, with her luggage, to the lodgings. Felix had two rooms by this time—a small bedroom and a diminutive front sitting room. After saying good-bye to Prue, who had to hasten back, Lettice inspected her bedroom under the landlady's guidance, unpacked so much as was needful for the night, and then went downstairs. The abrupt collapse of pleasant plans could not but be depressing. She had not the slightest doubt that three or four days at most would see her once more at her uncle Bryant's. Felix would not want her longer; and she could not be a burden on the Valentines in their trouble. She tried to believe that the seed of some unexpected good might be hidden in this withered flower of disappointment. Had she only felt sure that Felix would give a hearty welcome, the delight of even one night under his roof might have sufficed to outweigh all else; but severe doubts assailed her as to what he might say or do. It would mean additional expense; and Felix was wont to calculate his outlay to the penny. Suppose he gave her no welcome? Suppose he were annoyed, even angry? Lettice scarcely knew how to face the possibility. To be repelled here, and then to go back, unwelcomed, to her lonely life in the cottage—she hardly knew which of the two was worst. A wave of distress rolled up anew and overpowered her. She was so thirsting for love and kindness. Her thoughts went back to his old promise of a "little home" when he should be able to provide it—a promise, the repetition of which had flagged of late. Did he wish to provide for her still? The dullest home with Felix would be sweet, because it would be her own—not merely somebody else's home to which she was admitted on sufferance. "But only if he really wanted me," she murmured. A recollection came up of the dear old Brighton days, and with it a craving for Cecilia. The years between faded to nothing, and she seemed again to see Sissie's face, to hear Sissie's voice, to feel Sissie's touch. Little jars or misunderstandings of that period had died into unimportance. Only the love remained.