“Arthur P. Heigham, Esq.,
“Care of Mrs. Carr,
“Madeira,”

as Lady Bellamy had told her; and, calling to Pigott to come with her, started off to the post-office to register and post her precious packet, for the Madeira mail left Southampton on the morrow.

She had just time to reach the office, affix the three shillings’ worth of stamps that the letter took, and register it, when the postman came up, and she saw it stamped and bundled into his bag with the others, just as though it were nothing, instead of her whole life depending on it; and away it went on its journey, as much beyond recall as yesterday’s sins.

“And so you have been a-writing to him, Miss?” said Pigott, as soon as they were out of the office.

“Yes, Pigott,” and she told her what Lady Bellamy had said.  She listened attentively, with a shrewd twinkle in her eyes.

“I’m thinking, dearie, that it’s a pity you didn’t post yourself, that’s the best letter; it can’t make no mistakes, nor fall into the hands of them it isn’t meant for.”

“What can you mean?”

“I’m thinking, miss, that change of air is a wonderful good thing after sickness, especially sea-air,” answered Pigott, oracularly.

“I don’t in the least understand you.  Really, Pigott, you drive me wild with your parables.”

“Lord, dear, for all you’re so clever you never could see half an inch into a brick wall, and that with my meaning as clear as a haystick in a thunderstorm.”

This last definition quite finished Angela.  Why, she wondered, should a haystack be clearer in a thunderstorm than at any other time.  She looked at her companion helplessly, and was silent.

“Bless me, what I have been telling, as plain as plain can be, is, why don’t you go to this Mad—­Mad—­what’s the name?—­I never can think of them foreign names.  I’m like Jakes and the flowers:  he says the smaller and ‘footier’ they are, the longer the name they sticks on to them, just to puzzle a body who——­”

“Madeira,” suggested Angela, with the calmness of despair.

“Yes, that’s it—­Madeiry.  Well, why don’t you go to Madeiry along with your letter to look after Mr. Arthur?  Like enough he is in a bit of a mess there.  So far as I know anything about their ways, young men always are, in a general sort of way, for everlasting a-caterwauling after some one or other, for all the world like a tom on the tiles, more especial if they are in love with somebody else.  But, dear me, a sensible woman don’t bother her head about that.  She just goes and hooks them out of it, and then she knows where they are, and keeps them there.”

“Oh, Pigott, never mind all these reflections, though I’m sure I don’t know how you can think of such things.  The idea of comparing poor dear Arthur with a tom-cat!  But tell me, how can I go to Madeira?  Supposing that he is married?”

“Well, then you would learn all about it for yourself, and no gammoning; and there’d be an end to it, one way or the other.”