November passed very pleasantly. Mrs. Morton was recovering strength slowly but surely; she was no longer a prisoner to her dressing-room, but could spend the greater part of the day in the drawing-room or in her husband’s library. But she still continued her invalid habits and saw few people. I still sat with her in the afternoon, and either Joyce or Reggie played about the room. When Mr. Morton was absent I came down to her in the evening, and read or talked to her. I prized these hours, for in them I learned to know my sweet mistress more intimately and to love her more dearly. At the beginning of December Gay came to us. I was looking forward to her visit with some eagerness, though I knew my evenings would then be spent in the nursery, as Mrs. Morton would only need her sister’s society; but, to my great surprise, I was summoned to the drawing-room on the evening of her arrival. She had come just in time to dress for dinner, and we had not yet seen her. I could scarcely credit Travers’ message when she delivered it. “Will you please go down to the little drawing-room, Miss Fenton? Miss Gay wants to see you, and my mistress does not care to be left alone.” She started up and came to meet me with outstretched hands. She looked prettier than ever, and her eyes were shining with happiness. “I am so glad to see you, Merle. I wanted to come up to the nursery, but this spoiled woman—how you have all spoilt her!—refused to be left. She said Hannah would be there, and that we could not talk comfortably.” “Yes, but there was another reason,” returned my mistress, smiling; and Gay blushed and cast down her eyes. “I wanted to tell you the news myself, because I knew you would be interested. Sit down, Merle, in your usual place, and guess what has happened.” I did not need to guess; the first look at Gay’s happy face had told me, and then I had glanced at a certain finger. Opals tell their own tales. “Guess,” continued my mistress, mischievously. “Who was the guest who came oftenest to Marshlands?” “There were two who came most frequently,” I returned, looking steadily into Gay’s blushing face, “Mr. Hawtry and Mr. Rossiter, but I do not need to be told it is Mr. Rossiter.” And Gay jumped up and kissed me in her impulsive way. I could see that she was pleased I had guessed it. “I told you it would be no news to her, Vi,” she said, breathlessly. “Do you remember our talk in the orchard, Merle, when I told you I was afraid of poverty?” “Yes, but I knew you magnified your fears, Miss Gay.” But she shook her head at that. “I hate it just as much as ever. I tell Walter I am the worst possible person for a poor man’s wife, and if you ask Violet she will agree with me, but I was obliged to have him, poverty and all; he would not take ‘No’ for an answer.” “I think Walter was very sensible,” returned her sister. “I should have despised him for giving it up.”