Faithfully yours,
Guy Appleton.
In less than two weeks Jean Lawrence sailed for Europe under the care of Mrs. Fay. A sense of desolation inwrapped the manor. The weather was sharp and cold and the sweet warm summer seemed a dream, and every little thing that recalled it gave the girls a pang. Emily Varian had departed, and both the Hills and Andrews were about to turn their faces cityward.
One crisp morning, when the wind blew fresh from the northwest, Eleanor came out from the inn with Cliff Archer at her side and started briskly forth in the direction of the parsonage. Eleanor's face wore an expression of deep dejection, and Cliff, observing this, made comment on it:
"You are down on your luck."
Eleanor smiled somewhat dubiously:
"It is in the air, Cliff. I don't know what is the matter with us all. Our good spirits seem to have deserted us with Jean."
There was a brief silence, broken by Archer. He spoke slowly, as if not quite sure of his ground:
"It was in the air before Jean went away, I think. It strikes me that she was fully under its influence herself."
Eleanor shot a glance at her companion:
"Jean was not well, you know."