Not many guests were for the moment at No. 60A, Porchester Gardens, so that the Mordaunts, mother and daughter, who always stopped there during their visits to London, could almost persuade themselves that they were in their own home. In the good old days Mr. and Mrs. Harrod, the proprietors, had been accustomed to receive three Mordaunts to their hospitality, when Gwen, the bright and petted, came with Violet and Mrs. Mordaunt. Only two now visited London, a grayer mother, a dumber sister; and though the Harrods asked no questions, made no prying into the heart's secret, nor uttered any word of sympathy, they well divined that the feet of the angel of sorrow had passed that way, and expressed their pity silently by a hundred little ministries. Violet and Mrs. Mordaunt were having tea in the drawing-room on the day of David Harcourt's visit to Miss L'Estrange, when the postman's knock sounded, and a minute later Mrs. Harrod herself came in, saying: "A letter for Miss Violet, and it contains good news; for I dreamt of soldiers last night, and so sure as I dream of soldiers, so sure are there letters with good news." "The good news will all be in the other people's letters, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "Good news is like wealth, Mrs. Harrod, unequally divided; to some of us it never comes." "Oh, come now!" cried the hearty Mrs. Harrod. "Never say die, say I! There's good and bad in store for everybody; and care killed a cat, after all. Don't I tell you I dreamt of soldiers? And so sure--" "It is that good heart of yours which makes you dream of soldiers. To bring healing to some lots in this world, you would have need to dream of generals and field-marshals--" "Some more tea, mother?" interposed Violet. She shrank from the threatened talk of human ills. Mrs. Mordaunt, most excellent woman, was not adverse to pouring some of her grief into a sympathetic ear. "Well, you will tell me at dinner whether I was right," cried Mrs. Harrod, and was gone. She had placed the letter on the tray, and there it still lay unopened. Violet handed the tea to her mother. The room was empty, save for them, the few other guests being out, and in the house reigned perfect quietude, a peacefulness accentuated by the wheels and hoofs passing in the dusk outside. "Vi," said Mrs. Mordaunt, "those flowers at your waist are almost faded; I think you might give up violets in London. They don't seem to me the same thing as in the country; but at least let them be fresh. Mr. Van Hupfeldt will be here presently--" "How do you know, mother?" "He mentioned, dear, that he would be coming." "But why, after all, every day?" "Is that displeasing to you, dear?" "It seems superfluous." "That compels me to suggest to you, Vi, that his coming to-day is of some special importance." "And why, pray?" "Can you not guess?"