The morning mail brought Rose a letter from Ottawa, which she devoured with avidity, and flourished before Grace's eyes.
"A love letter, Mistress Grace," she said. "My darling Jules is dying to have me back. I mean to ask papa to let me go. It is as dull as a monastery of La Trappe here."
"What's the news from England, Kate?" asked her father, as they all sat down to table.
The rosy light was at its brightest in Kate's face, but Sir Ronald looked as black as a thunder cloud.
"Everybody is well, papa."
"Satisfactory, but not explanatory. Everybody means the good people at Stanford Royals, I suppose?"
"Yes, papa."
"Where is Reginald?"
"At Windsor. But his regiment is ordered to Ireland."
"To Ireland! Then he can't come over this winter?"