Then she went back to her place, and tried to write, and sat with her head on her hand, and dawdled and cried and blotted till it grew so near post-time that at last Miss Fosbrook took the longest of her scrawls, and writing three lines at the bottom to say how it was with them all, directed it to Captain Merrifield, thinking that he would like it better than nothing from home, sent it off, and made Susan come out to refresh her hot eyes and burning head in the garden. Sam presently came and walked on her other side, gravely and in silence, glad to be away from the chatter and disputes of the younger ones. That summons had made them both feel older, and less like children, than ever before; but they did not speak much, only, when they sat down on a garden bench, as Miss Fosbrook held Susan’s hand, she presently found some rough hard young fingers stealing into her own on the other side, and saw Sam’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. She stroked his hand, and they dropped fast: but he was ashamed to cry, and quickly dried them. “I think,” she said, “that you will be a man, Sam; take care of Susan, and be a comfort to your father.” “I hope I shall,” said Sam; “but I don’t know how.” “Nobody can tell how beforehand,” she said. “Only watch to see what he may seem to want to have done for him. Sit quietly by, and don’t get in the way.” “Were you ever so unhappy, Miss Fosbrook?” asked Susan. “Yes, once I was, when my father was knocked down by an omnibus, and was very ill.” “Tell us about it?” said Susan. She did tell them of her week of sorrow and anxious care of the younger children, and the brightening ray of hope at last. It seemed to freshen both up, and give them hopes, for each drew a long sigh of relief; and then Sam said, “Papa wrote to Mr. Carey. She is to be prayed for in church to-morrow.” “Oh,” said Susan, with a sound as of dismay, which made Christabel ask in wonder why she was sorry, when, from Susan’s half-uttered words, she found that the little girl fancied that a “happy issue out of all her afflictions” meant death. “Oh no, my dear,” she said. “What it means is, that the afflictions may end happily in whatever way God may see to be best; it may be in getting well; it may be the other way: at any rate, it is asking that the distress may be over, not saying how.” “Isn’t there some other prayer in the Prayer-book about it?” said Sam, looking straight before him. “I will show you where to find it, in the Visitation of the Sick. I dare say it has often been read to her.” The boy and girl came in with her, and brought their Prayer-books to her room, that she might mark them.