A foreign letter was awaiting Embrance’s arrival. Mrs. Clemon was not a regular correspondent, but when she did write she sent a good budget of news, pouring out a complete history of her experiences for the benefit of the niece who had been to her as a daughter. She was happy; her son was doing well. Now and then there came a hint that Embrance would be heartily welcome, if she could make up her mind to come out. In the next page, much blotted and smudged, came the tidings that William was engaged to be married to a neighbour’s daughter, a pretty girl and well brought up; but, ah! it might have been so different! Still, she would not complain, only now would Embrance come? There was room, and to spare. William and his wife would rejoice to see her. Let her think over the proposal, and not decide in haste. Then the letter went on to tell of preparations for the wedding. There were little bits of information concerning the bride’s family, and there was a great deal about an Irish help who had run away and left them at a moment’s notice without rhyme or reason. At the very end of the page came another suggestion, in William’s hand, “Come for a year, and try how you like us”; after which his mother had taken up her pen again to say, “Bless you in all your doings, my child, whatever course you decide upon.” Embrance kissed the letter and put it away carefully. There was no time to read it again to-night, or to think if she should follow her aunt’s wishes. She was wofully behindhand with her work, and to-morrow morning she had an extra lesson to give to a backward pupil who lived at South Kensington. The long day with Mrs. Rakely had tried her newly-gained strength to its utmost limits, and her ankle was very painful. She limped towards the chiffonier in search of a book; in the glass over the mantelpiece she saw the door open with the familiar jerk that always preluded Annie’s knock. “Come in,” said Embrance; but the words died away on her lips as she recognised the figure in the doorway, whose shoulders towered above the little handmaiden. “Mr. Horace Meade.” There was no sign of eccentricity in Horace’s appearance; even Mrs. Rakely might have been satisfied. He wore a dark, grey coat, and in his hand he carried a hat which was scrupulously glossy and well brushed. When he spoke his manner and voice were very quiet, much of the fun seemed to have died out of him during his sojourn in Italy, and his first remark was commonplace to the last degree. “I heard from Mrs. Rakely that you had met with an accident. I am exceedingly sorry; I called to inquire how you were before I leave town.” “You are going away for some time, I suppose?” asked Embrance, when she had invited her visitor to sit down. He took a chair by the window, and seemed interested in the growth of some ferns that Joan had sent from her garden.