One morning a letter from London announced that Mr. Lind had taken a house in Westbourne Terrace, and intended to live there permanently with his daughter.  Elinor had not come down to breakfast when the post came.

“Yes,” said Mrs. McQuinch, when she had communicated the news:  “I knew there was something the matter when I saw Reginald’s handwriting.  It must be fully eighteen months since I heard from him last.  I am very glad he has settled Marian in a proper home, instead of living like a bachelor and leaving her to wander about from one house to another.  I wish we could have afforded to ask her down here oftener.”

“Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly,” said Lydia, who had been examining the envelope.

“To Nelly!” said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed.  “I think she should have invited one of you first.”

“Perhaps it is not an invitation,” said Jane.

“What else is it likely to be, child?” said Mrs. McQuinch.  Then, as she thought how much pleasanter her home would be without Elinor, she added, “After all, it will do Nelly good to get away from here.  She needs change, I think.  I wish she would come down.  It is too bad of her to be always late like this.”

Elinor came in presently, wearing a neglected black gown; her face pale; her eyes surrounded by dark circles; her black hair straggling in wisps over her forehead.  Her sisters, dressed twinlike in white muslin and gold lockets, emphasized her by contrast.  Being blond and gregarious, they enjoyed the reputation of being pretty and affectionate.  They had thriven in the soil that had starved Elinor.

“There’s a letter for you from Marian,” said Mrs. McQuinch.

“Thanks,” said Elinor, indifferently, putting the note into her pocket.  She liked Marian’s letters, and kept them to read in her hours of solitude.

“What does she say?” said Mrs. McQuinch.

“I have not looked,” replied Elinor.

“Well,” said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, “I wish you would look.  I want to know whether she says anything about this letter from your uncle Reginald.”

Elinor plucked the note from her pocket, tore it open, and read it.  Suddenly she set her face to hide some emotion from her family.

“Marian wants me to go and stay with her,” she said.  “They have taken a house.”

“Poor Marian!” said Jane.  “And will you go?”

“I will,” said Elinor.  “Have you any objection?”

“Oh dear, no,” said Jane, smoothly.

“I suppose you will be glad to get away from your home,” said Mrs. McQuinch, incontinently.

“Very glad,” said Elinor.  Mr. McQuinch, hurt, looked at her over his newspaper.  Mrs. McQuinch was huffed.

“I dont know what you are to do for clothes,” she said, “unless Lydia and Jane are content to wear their last winter’s dresses again this year.”

The faces of the young ladies elongated.  “That’s nonsense, mamma,” said Lydia.  “We cant wear those brown reps again.”  Women wore reps in those days.