“But, Lucy,” said the young husband, his pleasant frank face shining with the mysterious light which often illumines the countenances which have just been bravely turned to confront the darkness of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, “I own, with you, that it does seem to be God’s will, but we must not think so now, unless we can continue to think so whatever be the result. Let us say together solemnly, ‘God’s will be done: not our will, but His.’” And there was a little silence. Lucy resolutely refused to consider the Grants’ invitation to Peterhead. She warmly seconded their suggestion that Charlie should travel in the snug, well-attended saloon of the magnificent coasting steamer rather than in the train. She refused to listen to his plea, that unless she would come with him this mode of travel would part them a day or two sooner than if he went by rail. She even nerved herself to say that when a matter of a year’s separation was in hand, what could a day more or less signify? It would be best that they should part in their own home, where life could go straight on, and she could set to work at once. It would be dreadful to come back to the house alone. (“Pollie would have a welcome for you,” interposed young Challoner.) Besides, who knew whether she and little Hugh might not prove to be the very worst of sailors, and then Charlie would go off quite unhappy, thinking of the misery of their return journey. In all these arguments Lucy knew there was force and good sense, but she knew, too, that but for the secret knowledge that her whole household life was crumbling about her, they would not for one moment have sufficed to withhold her from clinging to her husband’s presence till the latest possible moment. “Now, Pollie,” she said to her servant, “I am able to tell you why I wish silence about your departure. It is finally arranged that my husband is going for a long sea-voyage. He will be away for about a year. When we first began to think of this it was a great consideration that I and the boy should have you—our household friend of seven years’ standing—to be with us. That thought was a great comfort. Now as we find this cannot be, I think we may save Mr. Challoner the distress of knowing about it before he goes. It might make him wish to postpone his going. And he ought to be off before the winter.” Pollie was sniffing. “I wish I’d known. I was huffed a bit thinking I wasn’t to be much consideration in any changes you was making.” “But what made you think of changes?” asked Mrs. Challoner. “This is no change. All will go on the same, though with your master away for a year, and then we shall hope that all will go on the same when he returns. It is only since this very morning, Pollie, that we have been quite sure this voyage can be arranged. You are the very first person I have told. We think those in a household, whose interests are naturally bound up together, should be the first to hear such news.”