"Then I'll take you, and we will go to-morrow. Mrs. Harris shall pack us a basket for lunch, and we'll make a day of it. Dear, dear, what a pity Paul couldn't be here, to go with us!" The next morning, which was brilliantly fine, brought the girls an anxiously-expected letter from Mrs. Duff-Scott. Sam Dunn, who was an occasional postman for the solitary house, delivered it, along with a present of fresh fish, while Mr. Brion was absent in the township, negotiating for a buggy and horses for his expedition. The fairy godmother had given but a grudging permission for this _villeggiatura_ of theirs, and they were all relieved to have her assurance that she was not seriously vexed with them. Her envelope was inscribed to "Miss King," but the long letter enclosed was addressed to her "dearest children" collectively, tenderly inquiring how they were getting on and when they were coming back, pathetically describing her own solitude--so unlike what it was before she knew the comfort of their companionship--and detailing various items of society news. Folded in this, however, was the traditional lady's postscript, scribbled on a small half-sheet and marked "private," which Elizabeth took away to read by herself. She wondered, with a little alarm, what serious matter it was that required a confidential postscript, and this was what she read:-- "I have been thinking over our talk the other day, dear. Perhaps I spoke too strongly. One is apt to make arbitrary generalisations on the spur of the moment, and to forget how circumstances may alter cases. There is another side to the question that should not be overlooked. The believing wife or husband may be the salvation of _the other_, and when the other is _honest_ and _earnest_, though _mistaken_, there is the strongest hope of this. It requires thinking of on _all_ sides, my darling, and I fear I spoke without thinking enough. Consult your own heart--I am sure it will advise you well." Elizabeth folded up the note, and put it into her pocket. Then--for she was alone in her own little bedroom--she sat down to think of it; to wonder what had reminded Mrs. Duff-Scott of their conversation the "other day"--what had induced her to temporise with the convictions which then appeared so sincere and absolute. But she could make nothing of it. It was a riddle without the key. Then she heard the sound of buggy wheels, hurried steps on the verandah, and the voice of Mr. Brion calling her.