She took off her bonnet, and sat down to wait with a book, but she could not fix her attention. She was very, very tired, and rather lonely; she did wish that Joan would come. The longing to speak to somebody was so great, that after a short time she put out her hand and rang the bell. Annie came running upstairs at the summons; her eyes were round with excitement; she hardly waited to hear Miss Clemon’s question. “Did Miss Fulloch leave any message for me when she went out?” “No, miss; she’s been gone ever since ten o’clock, half an hour after you left. I heard the door bang, and I said to myself, ‘What’s that?’ And it was Miss Fulloch; she had on her new bonnet, with the pink feather, that she was making.” “Never mind the bonnet, Annie; did she say when she would be in to tea?” “No, miss; and I expect she won’t be back; she took her bag.” “Very well. I will wait half an hour, and then, please, bring tea.” “There’s something wrong upstairs,” was Annie’s report in the kitchen. “Miss Clemon looks as if she see a ghost. She isn’t half the lady she was.” Seven o’clock struck; eight o’clock, nine o’clock, and no Joan appeared. Embrance drank a cup of tea, but she could not eat anything. In vain she told herself that very likely Mrs. Rakely had made one of her flying visits to London, and had persuaded Joan to spend the day with her; it was absurd to be anxious; of course she would be back directly; nevertheless she could not read, write, or rest. The late postman brought a letter for Miss Clemon. Annie, having studied the envelope on the way upstairs, saw that the postmark was Brighton. Embrance took the letter. The handwriting, firm and neat, was quite strange to her. She opened it hastily. “Dear old Embrance” (it began). “I had not the courage to say good-bye to you this morning, but I told you that I had a secret, and I think you guessed it; you are so clever. I was afraid you would be disappointed, you meant me to be a painter’s wife, didn’t you? but I was happily married to Alfred Brownhill this morning, and we are spending our honeymoon at Brighton. We must come and see you before we go to Doveton. Alfred sends his kind regards; he remembers you quite well. You will be glad to hear that I am so happy; I hope you won’t miss me too much, you busy old dear.—Your loving, JOAN BROWNHILL. P.S. Alfred likes the bonnet very much. He wrote the address; were you mystified?” A little bunch of sweet smelling violets dropped out of the letter and scented the room—Joan always loved flowers. She liked everything that was pleasant and good to look upon.