It was very plain that everything _was_ wrong again. The epistle in question was an impetuous, impassioned effusion enough. He was furious against Gowan, and bitter against everybody else. She had cheated and slighted and trifled with him when he most needed her love and pity; but he would not blame her, he could only blame himself for being such an insane, presumptuous fool as to fancy that anything he had to offer could be worthy of any woman. What had he to offer, etc., for half a dozen almost illegible pages, dashed and crossed, and all on fire with his bitterness and pain. Having taken it from Aimée, and read it for the twentieth time, Dolly fairly wrung her hands over it. “If we were only just _together!_” she cried. “If we only just had the tiniest, shabbiest house in the world, and could be married and help each other! He does n't mean to be unjust or unkind, you know, Aimée; he would be more wretched than I am if he knew how unhappy he has made me.” “Ah!” sighed Aimée. “He should think of that before he begins.” Then she regained possession of the letter, and smoothed out its creases on her knee, finishing by folding it carefully and returning it to its envelope, looking very grave all the time. “Will you lend me this?” she said at last, holding the epistle up. “What are you going to do with it?” asked Dolly, disconsolately. “I am going to ask Griffith to read it again. I shall be sure to see him to-morrow night.” “Very well,” answered Dolly; “but don't be too hard upon him, Aimée. He has a great deal to bear.” “I know that,” said Aimée. “And sometimes he bears it very well; but just now he needs a little advice.” Troubled as she was, Dolly laughed at the staid expression on her small, discreet face; but even as she laughed she caught the child in her arms and kissed her. “What should we do without you!” she exclaimed. “We need some one to keep us all straight, we Vagabonds; but it seems queer that such a small wiseacre as you should be our controlling power.” The mere sight of the small wiseacre had a comforting effect upon her. Her spirits began to rise, and she so far recovered herself as to be able to look matters in the face more cheerfully. There was so much to talk about, and so many questions to ask, that it would have been impossible to remain dejected and uninterested. It was not until after tea, however, that Aimée brought her “business” upon the carpet. She had thought it best not to introduce the subject during the earlier part of the evening; but when the tea-tray was removed, and they found themselves alone again, she settled down, and applied herself at once to the work before her. “I have not told you yet what I came here for this afternoon,” she said. “You don't mean to intimate that you did not come to see me!” said Dolly. “I came to see you, of course,” decidedly; “but I came to see you for a purpose. I came to talk to you about Mollie.” Dolly almost turned pale.