Two boxes, the heavier ones, stood open; and that which contained her chief treasures was more than half emptied. Cecilia's dresses lay about on bed and chairs; Cecilia's little treasures were tossed together on the floor. What Theodosia's object could have been in leaving things thus, Lettice was unable to conjecture. A torrent of recollections took possession of her, at the sight of an old brown merino, which Sissie had worn incessantly the last autumn, going to and from her lessons . . . Those dear old days! Gone for ever! Sissie's face came back with an extraordinary vividness: and Lettice knelt by the bed, kissing passionately the old merino which Sissie's hand had touched. She forgot dinner: forgot the need for haste: forgot her own muddied condition. There was no room in her mind for such thoughts. "But oh, dear, dear Sissie, I would not have you back, if I could," she murmured. "So much happier there! It would be selfish! And it isn't so very long to wait. I shall see you again—by-and-by. O dear Sissie!" She kissed again the brown dress: then folded and repacked it reverently, putting in the other dresses and all the little knick-knacks, with loving tender fingers. "Dear Sissie!" she whispered again and again, and she strove to forget Theodosia. Then the gong sounded: and Lettice knew herself to be inevitably late; blamed herself for it too, since Theodosia would be offended. Make haste as she might, muddy boots could not be in one moment unlaced, or disordered hair made straight, or evening dress put on. "Have they begun?" she asked, meeting Susanna in the hall as she descended. Susanna was the parlour-maid, a middle-aged and most reliable person, of long-standing in the household. It was she who had from the first taken a resolute lead in declaring "Miss Lettice" innocent of Mrs. Bryant's charge; and she had always shown a marked affection for her master's adopted niece. This evening she looked strange and pale, and she scarcely answered when Lettice spoke, keeping her eyes averted. Lettice noted the unusual manner, and was perplexed; but no time could be spared for questions. "You certainly are not remarkable for speed in dressing," Theodosia remarked. "The soup is gone. I suppose you do not wish for any." "No, thank you . . . I ought to have been in time, but—" "If you would like some soup it is not too late," the Doctor said. "Oh, I would rather not, uncle. I ought to have been down,—only I waited to put away some of my things." The restless gleam appeared again in Theodosia's eyes. Some absorbing thought seemed to hold her in possession: and she talked in an odd broken way, forgetting to finish her own sentences, and plunging into the remarks of others. Dr. Bryant scanned her steadily once or twice: and Lettice was conscious of an unusual atmosphere. "Where is Keith?" asked Dr. Bryant, when dessert appeared. "I told him to go to bed, and not to come in to-night. I thought we might be late."