that courage is the touchstone of Fortune; the criterion by which the
capricious Goddess measures her votaries and distributes her smiles.

I made my journey to Sundridge and arrived there in the afternoon near
the hour of three, finding my uncle and my cousin Sarah at home, but
Frances abroad.

"She walks a great deal nowadays," remarked my uncle, and Sarah assented
with--"Yes, a great deal," having, I fancied, more significance in her
manner than in her words.

"There has been hardly a pleasant afternoon in a month that she has not
been abroad with her book," continued Sir Richard.

"Her book," murmured Sarah, who was a laconic young person, much given to
observing conditions about her and equally prone to keep her conclusions
to herself.

"She refuses all company," remarked my uncle, who did not seem to catch
the sceptical inflection in his younger daughter's voice, "and I
sometimes fear she wishes to be alone because she is brooding over our
misfortunes."

"Brooding!" murmured Sarah, with slightly lifted eyebrows.

"Even when she is at home she sits all day long at the window and sighs,"
said Sir Richard, dolefully.

"Sighs," concurred laconic Sarah.