Cicely longed to comfort him, but she could not say anything which would seem to have reason in it.  She had tried to think that it might be possible that the despatch might not concern Miriam, but she could not do it.  If it had been necessary to send a despatch and Miriam had been alive and well, it would have been from her that the despatch would have come.  Cicely’s soul was sick with sorrow and with dread, not only for the brother, but for herself, for she and Miriam were now fast friends.  But she controlled herself, and looking up with a smile, said, “What time is it?”

Ralph took out his watch and held the face of it toward the moon, which was but little past the full.

“It is a quarter to nine,” he said.

“Well, then,” said she, “I will ask Miriam, when I see her, if she was looking at the moon at this time.”

“Do you believe,” exclaimed Ralph, turning suddenly so that they stood face to face, “do you truly believe that we shall ever see her again?”

The question was so abrupt that Cicely was taken unawares.  She raised her face toward the eager eyes bent upon her, but the courageous words she wished to utter would not come, and she drooped her head.  With a swift movement, Ralph put his two hands upon her cheeks and gently raised her face.  He need not have looked at her, for the warm tears ran down upon his hands.

“You do not,” he said; and as he gazed down upon her, her face became dim.  For the first time since his boyhood, tears filled his eyes.

At a quick sound of hoofs and wheels, both started; and the next moment the telegraph boy drove up close to the railing and held up a yellow envelope.

“One dollar for delivery,” said he; “that’s night rates.  This come jest as the office was shetting up, and Mr. Martin said I’d got to deliver it to-night; but I couldn’t come till the moon was up.”

Cicely, who was nearer, seized the telegram before Ralph could get it.

“Drive round to the back of the house,” she said to the boy, “and I will bring you the money.”

She held the telegram, though Ralph had seized it.

“Don’t be too quick,” she said, “don’t be too quick.  There, you will tear it in half.  Let me open it for you.”

She deftly drew the envelope from his hand, and spread the telegram on the broad rail of the piazza, on which the moon shone full.  Instantly their heads were close together.

“I cannot read it,” groaned Ralph; “my eyes are—­”

“I can,” interrupted Cicely, and she read aloud the message, which ran thus,—­

“Fear news of accident may trouble you.  We are all well.  Have written.  Miriam Haverley.”

Ralph started back and stood upright, as if some one had shouted to him from the sky.  He said not one word, but Cicely gave a cry of joy.  Ralph turned toward her, and as he saw her face, irradiated by the moonlight and her sudden happiness, he looked down upon her for one moment, and then his arms were outstretched toward her; but, quick as was his motion, her thought was quicker, and before he could touch her, she had darted back with the telegram in her hand.