"A letter from Paris! Grandmamma, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly, as she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's Bath house, situated not far from the renowned Pump-room. "Look! And it will be about Roy! And it is in my papa's handwriting." Polly followed close in rear of the eager child, hardly less eager herself. She might at least hope for a message from Denham, perhaps to say that a letter was coming. Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady--in these days, with the same weight of years, she would be no more than cheerfully middle-aged--adjusted her horn spectacles, laid the letter on her knee, tied her loosened cap-strings, and scrutinised Molly's excited face. "You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever may befall, it is never worth while to discompose yourself." Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand, laid it down anew, and resumed her knitting. Molly's agony of suspense and Polly's wistful eyes alike failed to touch her. Young folks, if well brought up, were expected to submit without question to the will of their elders, and Mrs. Fairbank had always been an excellent disciplinarian. This was, in her eyes, much too good an opportunity for a lesson in self-control to be neglected. Molly stood, squeezing her hands together, wondering if the slow moments would ever pass. Mrs. Fairbank serenely knitted, stopped to count, and knitted again. "I met Mrs. Peirce and Will in Milsom Street after breakfast," she observed. "Mrs. Peirce informed me that the Admiral had a letter yestere'en from his nephew, Mr. Albert Peirce." Mrs. Fairbank's eyes wandered round the room in quest of something else to remark upon. "My dear Polly, you must surely have forgot! That piece of knitting which was to have been done to-day----" "I'll set to work upon it, ma'am. It won't take me but a very short time. O Jack!"--and a note of relief could be heard. "Jack!" gasped Molly, under her breath. "My dear Jack!" and Mrs. Fairbank suspended her knitting to glance up in pleased surprise. The young man who walked in--he was hardly more than a boy in years--bore small resemblance to Polly, though he was her brother. He was of squarer build, slightly under medium height, and muscular in make; his features were irregular, and the eyes were light blue instead of brown. Beyond those good-humoured blue eyes and a fresh complexion, Jack Keene had no pretensions to good looks; but many people, beside his grandmother, counted him a very pleasant young fellow. Mrs. Fairbank, after the manner of old ladies, simply doted on her grandson. In her view he could almost do no wrong. "Jack, Jack, there's a letter," whispered Molly, clutching at him. "And, oh! she won't open it. She won't tell us how they are!"