"Odd!" Theodosia said, as she stood gazing. "What should make them put my name? Perhaps they think my husband would be off by this time! And if he were—as if I should be in any suspense! Why didn't they send it earlier?" A wave of indignant disgust towards the Andersons swelled in her breast. "Why should I trouble myself to open it? What do I care for those people? . . . Maurice is infatuated . . . Let him go, and have his drive for nothing! . . . What harm? . . . It will make him think less of them, perhaps!" Such half-formed ideas flashed through Theodosia's mind; and before she knew whither they tended, or what was the actual form of the temptation, she had tossed the yellow envelope upon the blazing fire. One little flash of flame, and only a curling shred remained. Then fear seized her. Suppose her husband should find out what she had done! Suppose, later, hearing that a telegram had been despatched, he should trace its receipt to her! Suppose—"But what nonsense! It was to me, not to him. I do not know who it was from, or what it said. I can say that I have heard nothing, and that there was no telegram for him." She tried to put aside the uncomfortable recollection, watched Dr. Bryant off on his snowy drive, and spent the afternoon in a state of mingled remorse and irritation. Her dislike of the Andersons was enhanced by the fact that she had, in a sense, done something to injure them. When Dr. Bryant returned, chilled, disappointed, and plainly hurt, she found not the slightest difficulty in showing exactly the same indignation which she might naturally have shown, if no telegram had been sent. "And after all, I do not know that it was from them," she said again in self-excuse, when her husband had gone off, with a mild, "Tut, my dear! Things are not so bad as that. I shall hear to-morrow." But the next morning arrived, and when the postbag was brought in, Dr. Bryant found no letter from Brighton. As related, he came at once to tell his wife. After which he retreated anew to his study, and wrote the short letter which reached Felix on the afternoon of Saturday. Theodosia watched him disappear, then threw herself back with a profound sigh. "I only hope something may have happened to prevent their coming altogether. Too good to be true, I am afraid. But to be boxed up here, in this wretched place, with people that I know I shall detest—" "Mamsie!" a small voice said, and a little boy in knickerbockers entered. He had Theodosia's pretty complexion, and his hair hung still in long curls, over a lace collar. Theodosia's face softened at the sight of him. All her tenderness went out towards this child; a lovable boy by nature, but systematically spoilt. "Come here, my sweet! What has Keith been doing?" He was six years old, but she had not yet learnt to drop the baby style of speech; and there was still a babyish intonation in his little high-pitched voice. "Mamsie, nurse said I wasn't to come; but I would. I knew you wouldn't mind."