“Yes, for a time; and to Madeira first. Our uncle has just written, inviting him rather pressingly. It seems that he has been rather bitten by the tales of travel he has heard from the visitors there, and he wants to see a little more of the world before returning home. Aunt Cossart and Effie do not share this desire, and they will shortly come home together in the mail; but he wants to go to the Canary Islands, and then take a boat for the Mediterranean, and see some of the African ports, and Spain and perhaps something of Italy, before he gets back; and he wants Cyril for his travelling companion.” “Fancy Uncle Cossart turning into a globe-trotter!” cried Sheila merrily. “But how nice for Cyril!” “Yes, it seems just the thing for the time being. He will be better away for a little while, and we shall know that he is in safe keeping. My father will write a full account of everything to our uncle—that is only right. But he has always been a favourite with them, and they will be glad to help us out of a present difficulty by taking him off, away from his old companions, and giving him something to do in playing courier to Uncle Cossart. Cyril is a good traveller and speaks several languages with a fair fluency. He is as much pleased with the prospect as he could be with anything in his present frame of mind.” “And are Aunt Cossart and Effie coming home?” asked Sheila with interest. “Yes, by the next mail after Cyril arrives there. Effie is so much better that there is no need to keep her out any longer, and our aunt is beginning to tire of hotel life, and to want to get back to her own home again. She wants you and Oscar to be there to welcome them, Sheila; and invites Oscar for the whole summer. She thinks he would be much better a little way out of the town after his illness, even when he is well and at the office again; and she says that the dog-cart or a riding horse will always be at his disposal to take him backwards and forwards.” “Oh, how kind of her!” cried Oscar, with a look of animation and pleasure in his face; and Sheila felt her own cheeks growing hot. She remembered her angry words of a few months back—“I will never forgive Aunt Cossart. I will never, never live at Cossart Place again!”—and a wave of self-reproach and humility swept over her, as she realised how hasty she had been in judging and condemning. Her aunt might not always be very wise, or even quite just; but she was very kind of heart. If her fondness for her daughter made her foolish sometimes, she could show at others a very tender consideration and thoughtfulness. “It would be splendid for Oscar,” she said softly; “I should like to send a letter to Aunt Cossart by Cyril. I’m afraid I have not always been quite nice to her and Effie; but I will try to be better now.”