Then came the news of the need of a miniature trousseau, and the letters breathed of head-flannels, robes, and the charm of tiny embroidered caps. "They were Edward's when he was a baby--the daintiest embroidery and thread lace. The christening cap is Honiton. They are a little yellow with time, of course, but I am bleaching them on the sweet-brier hedge. I can see the white patches on the green as I write. They look like some strange sort of flowers, and they make me dream of the beautiful future." In due season Baby was born and christened; and then Miss Eden, that was, wrote to ask if she might come to the Beeches, and bring the darling little one. Mrs. Despard was delighted. She loved babies. It was a beautiful baby--beautifully dressed, and it rested contentedly in the arms of a beautifully dressed lady, whose happy face Mrs. Despard could hardly reconcile with her recollections of Miss Eden. The young mother's happiness radiated from her, and glorified her lips and eyes. Even Mr. Despard owned, when the pair had gone, that marriage and motherhood had incredibly improved Miss Eden. And now, the sudden departure of a brother for the other side of the world took Mrs. Despard to Southampton, whence his boat sailed, and where lived the happy wife and mother, who had been Miss Eden. When the tears of parting were shed, and the last waving handkerchief from the steamer's deck had dwindled to a sharp point of light, and from a sharp point of light to an invisible point of parting and sorrow, Mrs. Despard dried her pretty eyes, and thought of trains. There was no convenient one for an hour or two. "I'll go and see Ella Cave," said she, and went in a hired carriage. "No. 70, Queen's Road," she said. "I think it's somewhere outside the town." "Not it," said the driver, and presently set her down in a horrid little street, at a horrid little shop, where they sold tobacco and sweets and newspapers and walking-sticks. "This can't be it! There must be some other Queen's Road?" said Mrs. Despard. "No there ain't," said the man. "What name did yer want?" "Cave," said Mrs. Despard absently; "Mrs. Edward Cave." The man went into the shop. Presently he returned. "She don't live here," he said; "she only calls here for letters." Mrs. Despard assured herself of this in a brief interview with a frowsy woman across a glass-topped show-box of silk-embroidered cigar-cases. "The young person calls every day, mum," she said; "quite a respectable young person, mum, I should say--if she was after your situation." "Thank you," said Mrs. Despard mechanically, yet with her own smile--the smile that still stamps her in the frowsy woman's memory as "that pleasant-spoken lady." She paused a moment on the dirty pavement, and then gave the cabman the address of the mother and sister, the address of the little house--small, but very convenient--and with a garden--such a lovely old garden--and so unusual in the middle of a town.