She sorted some letters and handed one to Nansie, who, after hesitating a little, asked: "Is there a letter for Miss Loveday? "Are you Miss Loveday?" "Yes." "No, there are none." "Or for Miss Nansie Loveday? N-a-n-s-i-e." "That's a curious way to spell Nancy," said the clerk. "No, there are none." Nansie lingered. "Or for Manners?" she asked, with singular timidity and bashfulness. "Mrs. or Miss?" inquired the clerk. Nansie's face and neck were scarlet as she replied: "Mrs." "None for that name," said the clerk. She lingered still, and said, with a kind of pathetic imploring: "Would a telegram be received here if addressed to the post-office till called for?" "Yes." "I sent one yesterday, and expected an answer. Is there any for either name?" "No." "Thank you," said Nansie, and walked out of the office, and set her face towards the caravan. The female clerk looked after her sympathizingly. There was a love note in her voice, and the post-office girl had a little sweethearting of her own on hand. CHAPTER II. Nansie walked on, turning the letter in her hand, and glancing at it occasionally. The writing was strange to her, and on the envelope was the London post-mark. When, at the end of twenty minutes, she stood by her father's side, he was asleep. "Father!" she said, bending over him. He opened his eyes instantly, and smiled at her. "Ah, Nansie, it is you. I drop off constantly now, on the smallest provocation from silence or solitude. But it can scarcely be called sleep; I am conscious of all that is going on around me." He observed the letter in her hand, and he said, eagerly, "You have one!" and took it from her. "Yes, it is from my brother Joseph; I was beginning to fear that he was dead." He opened the letter and read it, and then remained a little while in thought. Presently he resumed the conversation. "You saw your uncle once, Nansie. Have you a recollection of him?" "Hardly any, father. How old could I have been when mother took me to see him? Not more than four or five, I think. I had a white dress and a blue sash, and I took him a bunch of flowers. He gave me some sweetmeats, I remember, and a shilling. But I have no recollection of his face. He lived in London, in a street off Whitechapel; that I know." "He lives there now. Your mother never spoke to you of him?" "Never." "You should be made acquainted with the story, Nansie, while I am here to relate it." She stopped the current of his speech. "Father, these last three or four weeks you have dropped hints which make me very anxious; they weigh heavily upon me. I know you are not well, but you harp upon it as if it were a serious illness. Tell me, father." They were sitting side by side now, and he was smoothing her hair with his hand. "I am far from well, Nansie." She interrupted him again, and now spoke with tremulous impetuosity. "You should take advice, father. You should go to a doctor."