Grif, whose arms had always been open to her at her best and at her worst, who had loved her and borne with her, and waited upon her and done her bidding since they were both little more than children. When had Grif ever turned from her before? Never. When had Grif ever been cold or unfaithful in word or deed? Never. When had he ever failed her? Never--never--never--until now! And now that he had failed her at last, she felt that the bitter end had come. The end to everything,--to all the old hopes and dreams, to all the old sweet lovers' quarrels and meetings and partings, to all their clinging together, to all the volumes and volumes of love and trust that lay in the past, to all the world of simple bliss that lay still unrevealed in their lost future, to all the blessed old days when they had pictured to each other what that future was to be. It had all gone for nothing in the end. It must all have gone for nothing, when Grif--a new Grif--not her own true, stanch, patient darling--not her own old lover--could read her burning, tender, suffering words and pass them by without a word of answer. And with this weight of despair and pain upon her heart, she went back to the wearisome routine of Brabazon Lodge,--went back heavy with humiliation and misery which she scarcely realized,--went back suffering as no one who knew her--not even Grif himself--could ever have understood that it was possible for her to suffer. No innocent coquetries now, no spirit, no jests; for the present at least she had done with them, too. “You are not in your usual spirits, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas. “No,” she answered, quietly, “I am not.” This state of affairs continued for four days, and then one morning, sitting at her sewing in the breakfast-room, she was startled almost beyond self-control by a servant's announcement that a visitor had arrived. “One of your sisters, ma'am,” said the parlor-maid. “Not the youngest, I think.” She was in the room in two seconds, and flew to Aimée, trembling all over with excitement. “Not a letter!” she cried, hysterically. “It is n't a letter,--it can't be!” And she put her hand to her side and fairly panted. The poor little wise one confronted her with something like fear. She could not bear to tell her the ill news she had come to break. “Dolly, dear!” she said, “please sit down; and--please don't look at me so. It isn't good news. I must tell you the truth; it is bad news, cruel news. Oh, don't look so!” They were standing near the sofa, and Dolly gave one little moan, and sank down beside it. “Cruel news!” she cried, throwing up her hand. “Yes, I might have known that,--I might have known that it would be cruel, if it was news at all Every one is cruel,--the whole world is cruel; even Grif,--even Grif!” Aimée burst into tears. “Oh, Dolly, I did my best for you!” she said. “I did, indeed; but you must try to bear it, dear,--it is your own letter back again.”