"Very well; I shall wait in."

"Let me see if I remember the order aright," said Brand, holding up his
fingers and counting. "Rosalys, Blanche, Ermentrude, Agnes, Jane,
Frances, Geraldine: correct?"

"Quite. I think their mother must forget at times. Well, good-night."

"Good-night--good-night!"

Brand returned to the empty room, and threw wide open one of the
windows. The air was singularly mild for a night in March; but he had
been careful of his friend. Then he dropped into an easy-chair, and
opened a letter.

It was the letter from Natalie Lind, which he had held in his hand ever
since, eagerly hoping that Evelyn would forget it--as, in fact, he had
done. And now with what a strange interest he read and re-read it; and
weighed all its phrases; and tried to picture her as she wrote these
lines; and studied even the peculiarities of the handwriting. There was
a quaint, foreign look here and there--the capital B, for example, was
written in German fashion; and that letter occurred a good many times.
It was Mr. Brand, and Mr. Brand, over and over again--in this friendly
and frank gossip, which had all the brightness of a chat over a new
acquaintance who interests one. He turned to the signature. "_Your
friend, Natalie._"

Then he walked up and down, slowly and thoughtfully; but ever and again
he would turn to the letter to see that he had quite accurately
remembered what she had said about the delight of the sail from Calais,