‘Oh! that would be delicious,’ cried Constance,
‘and Ida has grown much more thoughtful lately, so perhaps she would do for a clergyman’s wife.’
‘Is Ida better?’ asked her aunt, who had been much drawn towards the girl by hearing that her health had suffered from grief for Michael.
‘Mamma does not mention her in her last letter, but poor Ida is really much more delicate than one would think, though she looks so strong. This would be delightful!’
‘Yet, joy well-nigh incredible!’ said her aunt, meditatively. ‘Were not those the words? It would not be like your uncle to put them in that way unless it were something—even more wonderful, and besides, why should he not write it to me?’
‘Oh—h!’ cried Constance, with a leap, rather than a start. ‘It can be only one thing.’
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t!’ cried poor Mary; ‘you must not, Constance, it would kill me to have the thought put into my head only to be lost.’
Constance looked wistfully at Lady Adela; but the idea she had suggested had created a restlessness, and her aunt presently left the room. Then Constance said—
‘Lady Adela, may I tell you something? You know that poor dear little Mite was never found?’
‘Oh! a boat must have picked him up,’ cried Amice; ‘and he is coming back.’