'But it is so dreadful--so sudden--so terrible! Look at my hands--I am all shaking. Oh, Nan, what would you do--what would you do if you were me?' Nan seemed to be thinking of something far away; it was after a second that she recalled herself to this question, and then she answered with some astonishment-- 'Don't you know your own mind, Madge?' 'Well, I do in a way,' said the younger sister, still staring at the letter. 'I like him well enough. I think it would do very well; and there would be no trouble with any one. I am sorry for that poor fellow Hanbury; but what _is_ the use of his hanging about, and keeping one nervous? There is no use in it all--nothing but bother. And I know Captain King is very fond of me, and I think he would be very kind; and you know he is not going to sea again. And mamma would be pleased. Do you think I should go to her now?' 'What is the use of going to any one until you know what your mind is?' If the unhappy Hanbury could only have seen his sweetheart at this moment--staring blankly at the open letter, with a doubt on her face which was most probably inspired by some vague and tender recollection of himself! What might not have happened if only he could have intervened at this crisis, and appealed to her with eyes and speech, and implored her to defy these terrible authorities in London? But Madge kept looking at the letter; and then she shut it together; and then she said with decision-- 'I think it's the best thing I can do. Wait a minute, Nan; I'll go and tell mamma.' When she came downstairs again she was quite radiant and eager in her joy. 'Oh, I'm so glad it's all settled and over. I'm so glad there'll be no more worry and bother. And really Captain King is one of the nicest-looking men we know--Edith has always said so--and he is so quiet and pleasant in his manner, and very amusing too: that is because he has no pretence. And grateful for small kindnesses; I suppose being so long at sea, and not seeing so many people, he hasn't got blase. Then he never pretends to be bored--but why are you so solemn, Nan; doesn't it please you?' Nan kissed her sister. 'I hope you will be very happy, dear,' she said, in her grave, kind way. 'Then I suppose I must answer his letter at once,' continued Madge, in her excited way. 'But how am I to do it, Nan? See how my fingers are all shaking; I couldn't write. And it would take me a month to find out what to say--and here you are being kept in, when you are always wanting to be out in the open air----' 'Oh, don't mind me, Madge. I will stay in with pleasure, if you want me.' 'But you shan't stay in on my account, dear Mother Nan--not a bit of it--not for all the men in the world. And yet I ought to send him a message. I ought to write.' 'I think, Madge,' the elder sister said, slowly, 'if that is any trouble to you, you might send him a message he would understand, without your writing much--a flower, perhaps----'