'There seems to be great enjoyment,' replied the young curate, looking,
however, somewhat pre-occupied.

'Look at Charlie Layton,' said she, pointing to the dumb boy. 'That
ball is perfect felicity, he had rather not play with it, the delight
is mere possession.' She was turning to the boy again, when Mr.
Wingfield said, not without hesitation--'You have not heard when to
expect your party from Madeira?'

'You know we cannot hear again. They were to sail by the next packet,
and it is uncertain how soon they may arrive.'

'And--and--your brother Arthur. Do you know when he comes home?'

'He promised to come this spring, but I fancy Captain Fitzhugh has
inveigled him somewhere to fish. He never writes, so he may come any
day. But what--is anything the matter?'

'I have a letter here that--which--in Lord Martindale's absence, I
thought it might be better--you might prefer my coming direct to you.
I cannot but think you should be aware'--stammered Mr. Wingfield.

'Well,'--she said, haughtily.

'Here is a letter from my cousin, who has a curacy in the Lake country.
Your brother is at Wrangerton, the next town.'

'Arthur is well?' cried she, starting.

'Yes, yes, you need not be alarmed, but I am afraid there is some