Joyce waited to hear no more, but went to her mother. She was sitting with her son's letter open before her. It began, "Dear father and mother," and these words went like a knife through Joyce's heart. Mrs. Falconer sat day after day in the same chair by the fire-place. Her large widow's cap--in those days an immense erection of many thick frillings, and with long "weepers" falling over her shoulders--altered her so entirely, scarcely any one would have recognised her. Joyce glanced through the letter. It was as self-sufficient and trifling as ever. Melville found foreign travel less delightful than he had expected. The diligence was then the universal mode of transit through France, and the two travellers had taken a whole month to reach Hyeres, a journey which can now be got through in three days at the longest calculation. Melville complained of the food and the cramped diligence, and how the smell of garlic made him sick; and how old Crawford was as "stiff as starch," and that he did not think he should stay away long. Of Genoa la Superba not a word, except to say that he had seen a fine copy of one of Raphael's pictures for sale, which, if his father would send the money, he would buy, for the dining hall at Fair Acres. Joyce had hardly patience to finish the letter; but her mother said: "Give the letter to me, Joyce." And then she smoothed the thin sheet of foreign paper tenderly, and, refolding it, placed it in her large work-box, which stood unused by her side. Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket, and said: "Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools to-morrow?" "You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into some interest about Melville's letter. "You can do as you like--my day is over." "Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It is--it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you--and upon us all--that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort." "Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your father--and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his prime, to leave me desolate!" "You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say; "and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to take up the business of the farm." "As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it." "Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything he does." Mrs. Falconer sighed.