“No, mother, she says her party is too large, and wants us to take a furnished house for her to come into at once--Myrtlewood if possible. Is it let, Grace?” “I think I saw the notice in the window yesterday.” “Then, I’ll go and see about it at once.” “But, my dear, you don’t really mean that poor dear Fanny thinks of coming anywhere but to us?” said her mother, anxiously. “It is very considerate of her,” said Grace, “with so many little children. You would find them too much for you, dear mother. It is just like Fanny to have thought of it. How many are there, Rachel?” “Oh! I can’t tell. They got past my reckoning long ago. I only know they are all boys, and that this baby is a girl.” “Baby! Ah, poor Fanny, I feared that was the reason the did not come sooner.” “Yes, and she has been very ill; she always is, I believe, but there is very little about it. Fanny never could write letters; she only just says: ‘I have not been able to attempt a letter sooner, though my dear little girl is five weeks old to-day. Think of the daughter coming at last, too late for her dear father, who had so wished for one. She is very healthy, I am thankful to say; and I am now so much better, that the doctor says I may sail next week. Major Keith has taken our cabins, in the Voluta, and soon after you receive this, I hope to be showing you my dear boys. They are such good, affectionate fellows; but I am afraid they would be too much for my dear aunt, and our party is so large, so the Major and I both think it will be the best way for you to take a house for me for six months. I should like Myrtlewood best, if it is to be had. I have told Conrade all about it, and how pretty it is, and it is so near you that I think there I can be happy as ever I can be again in this world, and have your advice for the dear children.’” “Poor darling! she seems but a child herself.” “My age--five and twenty,” returned Rachel. “Well I shall go and ask about the house. Remember, mother, this influx is to bring no trouble or care on you; Fanny Temple is my charge from henceforth. My mission has come to seek me,” she added as she quitted the room, in eager excitement of affection, emotion, and importance, for Fanny had been more like a sister than a cousin. Grace and Rachel Curtis were the daughters of the squire of the Homestead; Fanny, of his brother, an officer in the army. Left at home for education, the little girl had spent her life, from her seventh to her sixteenth year, as absolutely one with her cousins, until she was summoned to meet her father at the Cape, under the escort of his old friend, General Sir Stephen Temple. She found Colonel Curtis sinking under fatal disease, and while his relations were preparing to receive, almost to maintain, his widow and daughter, they were electrified by the tidings that the gentle little Fanny, at sixteen, had become the wife of Sir Stephen Temple, at sixty.