Paquita, in particular, was fond of a sequestered nook in the grounds, where, half hidden by shrubs, she could command a view of the long straight road leading from the nearest railway station.
She had a notion that she would be the first one to see the absentees, and had chosen that as a place of observation, where she would sit for hours watching and trying to hope.
Harvey found out her retreat, and employed the photographer who took Emily's portrait, to give a good likeness of the southern beauty.
Paquita knew nothing of this, so absorbed was she in her own meditations, till a few days afterwards Uncle Dick, as she had learnt to call him, gave her some copies of it.
She thanked him, and, hurrying off to her own room, enclosed one in an envelope, which she addressed to Harry. There was no letter with it, but underneath the portrait she wrote—
"With Paquita's dearest love. As she waits for one who comes not."
This she posted herself, registering it for extra safety.
Still came no tidings, as day after day passed, till one morning the postman brought a large official-looking letter, addressed in a strange handwriting, and bearing foreign post-marks.
Despite all his hardihood, Harkaway's hand trembled as he took it up, and, eager as he was for news, it was some seconds before he could nerve himself to break the seal.