The east wind had been particularly trying to Mrs. Fenchurch’s neuralgia, she had received a disappointing post, and carried away by this combination of circumstances, she vented her feelings on Letty, who had been so unfortunate as to upset a bottle of ink. “Oh, what a mess! my good cover ruined!” she cried. “You never _can_ do anything right or like other people. If only someone would marry you, and take you out of my house and out of my sight, I’d give a thousand pounds!” Pacing up and down her room that same afternoon, her thoughts darting in all directions like some frantic sorely pressed fugitive, Letty came to a momentous decision. Escape for her life she must, and somehow! She had no money, no home to receive her; there was but one alternative, and as she stood in the window looking out on the bleak prospect, she vowed to herself that she would marry the very first man who asked her--yes, she _would_. Having made this desperate resolution, she broke down, burst into tears, and ran and buried her face in her pillow, in case her next-door neighbour (a housemaid) might overhear her too audible, and convulsive sobs. Shortly after this scene, the unfortunate girl ‘brought home,’ as Mrs. Fenchurch expressed it, influenza from a cottage in the village, and was _hors de combat_ for three weeks--entailing extra trouble to the servants, a visit from the local doctor, and a chemist’s bill. Then one afternoon towards the end of March, Mrs. Fenchurch herself climbed up to visit the patient; her presence always made the girl’s heart flutter--beyond words to express she dreaded being alone with Aunt Dorothy; but on this occasion Aunt Dorothy looked almost agreeable, and was carrying in her hand a box which was addressed to ‘Miss Glyn, The Holt, Thornby,’ and had been despatched from the south of France. “This has just come for you, Letty, and I have brought it up myself,” said Mrs. Fenchurch breathlessly. “Here are a pair of scissors--now let us see what is inside.” To Letty’s amazement the box contained a quantity of exquisite exotic flowers despatched by a well-known florist in Monte Carlo. On the top of these, lay a card on which was inscribed, “From H. Blagdon, with all good wishes.” And once more, hope whispered a flattering tale to the matchmaker. Was she to have her own way with the world, after all? “Oh, they are from Mr. Blagdon!” exclaimed the girl. “Surely there must be some mistake--how very funny!” “How very kind, you should say,” corrected her aunt. “I am positive they couldn’t have cost a penny less than fifty francs--just look at these carnations and orchids! We will have some vases and put them about the room.” “No, no, no,” protested Letty; “please not! I don’t like hothouse flowers in a bedroom; but do you take them; they will look beautiful below stairs.” “Oh, very well, _I_ never refuse a good offer,” declared her visitor, collecting them into the box. “I suppose you will write and thank him?”