A few days brought me a letter from the good vicar. There occurred in it a passage which finally quieted the faint struggle of hope now and then reviving. He said, "I observe by your letter that you are already apprised of the disappointing result of my search for the will of the late Sir Harry Rokestone. He had informed several persons of the spot where, in the event of his executing one, which he always, I am told, treated as very doubtful, it would be found. He had placed the key of the safe along with some other things at his departure, but without alluding to his will. At the request of Mr. Marston I opened the safe, and the result was, I regret to say, that no will was found." I was now, then, in dread earnest to lay my account for a life of agitation and struggle. At last a promising answer to my advertisement reached me. It said, "The Countess of Rillingdon will be in town till this day week, and will be happy to see L.Y.L.X., whose advertisement appeared in the _Times_ of this morning, if possible to-day before two." The house was in Belgrave Square. It was now near twelve. I called immediately with a note, to say I would call at a quarter to two, and at that hour precisely I returned. It was plain that this was but a flying visit of the patrician owners of the house. Some luggage, still in its shiny black casings, was in the hall; the lamps hung in bags; carpets had disappeared; curtains were pinned up; and servants seemed scanty, and more fussy than in the organized discipline of a household. I told the servant that I had called in consequence of a note from Lady Rillingdon, and he conducted me forthwith up the stairs. We passed on the way a young lady coming down, whom I conjectured to be on the same errand as myself. We exchanged stolen looks as we passed, each, I daresay, conjecturing the other's chances. "Her ladyship will see you presently," he said, opening a door. I entered, and whom should I see waiting in the room, in a chair, in her hat, with her parasol in her hand, but Laura Grey. "Ethel!" "Laura!" "Darling!" And each in a moment was locked in the other's embrace. With tears, with trembling laughter, and more kisses than I can remember, we signalized our meeting. "How wonderful that I should have met you here, Laura!" said I; though what was the special wonder in meeting her there more than anywhere else, I could not easily have defined. "You must tell me, darling, if you are looking to come to Lady Rillingdon, for, if you are, I would not for the world think of it." Laura laughed very merrily at this. "Why, Ethel, what are you dreaming of? I'm Lady Rillingdon!" Sometimes a mistake seizes upon us with an unaccountable obstinacy. Laura's claiming to be Lady Rillingdon seemed to me simply a jest of that poor kind which relies entirely on incongruity, without so much colour of possibility as to make it humorous.