She gazed at Hamish as if she would read his very soul. “And what did--what did you answer?” “Told him I wished a few others would suspect me of the same, and count imaginary payments for real ones.” “Hamish!” she exclaimed, the complaint wrung from her: “how can you be so light, so cruel, when our hearts are breaking?” Hamish, in turn, was surprised at this. “I, cruel! In what manner, Constance? My dear, I repeat to you that we shall have Charley back again. I feel sure of it; and it has done away with my fear. Some inward conviction, or presentiment--call it which you like--tells me that we shall; and I implicitly trust to it. We need not mourn for him.” “It is not for Charley: I do not speak of Charley now,” she sadly reiterated. “You are straying from the point. Hamish, have you _no_ love left for Arthur?” “I have plenty of love for every one,” said Mr. Hamish. “Then _how_ can you behave like this? Arthur is not guilty; you know he is not. And look what he has to bear! I believe you would laugh at the greatest calamity! Sending back this money to Mr. Galloway has--has--sadly distressed me.” Hamish turned his smiling eyes upon her, but his tone was grave. “Wait until some great calamity occurs, Constance, and then see whether I laugh. Did I laugh that dreadful night and day that succeeded to Charley’s loss? Sending back the money to Mr. Galloway is not a cause for sadness. It most certainly exonerates Arthur.” “And you are gay over it!” She would have given anything to speak more plainly. “I am particularly gay this afternoon,” acknowledged Hamish, who could not be put out of temper by any amount of reproach whatever. “I have had great news by the post, Constance.” “From Germany?” she quickly cried. “Yes, from Germany,” he answered, taking a letter from his pocket, and spreading it open before Constance. It contained the bravest news: great news, as Hamish expressed it. It was from Mr. Channing himself, and it told them of his being so far restored that there was no doubt now of his ability to resume his own place at his office. They intended to be home the first week in November. The weather at Borcette continued warm and charming, and they would prolong their stay there to the full time contemplated. It had been a fine autumn everywhere. There was a postscript added to the letter, as if an afterthought had occurred to Mr. Channing. “When you see Mr. Huntley, tell him how well I am progressing. I remember, by the way, that he hinted at being able to introduce you to something, should I no longer require you in Guild Street.” In the delight that the news brought, Constance partially lost sight of her sadness. “It is not all gloom,” she whispered to herself. “If we could only dwell on God’s mercies as we do on His chastisement; if we could only feel more trust, we should see the bright side of the cloud oftener than we do.”