Emily, in the meantime, felt her heart faint; this new trouble going down to the deepest part of her heart, woke up and raised again the half-appeased want and sorrow.  Again she dreamed that she was folding her little child in her arms, and woke to find them empty.  She could not stand against this, and decided, in sheer desperation, to quit the field.  She would go on the Continent to Justina; rest and change would help her, and she would send back the ring, when all was arranged, by Aunt Christie.

She was still at her desk, having at last managed to write the note.

She was to start the next morning.  Miss Christie was then on her way to John Mortimer with the ring, and tired with her own trouble and indecision, she was resting in a careless attitude when she heard a knock at the door.

“That tiresome boy again,” she disrespectfully murmured, rousing up a little, and a half smile stealing out.  “What am I to do with him?” She thought it was the new curate.  “Why, Johnnie, is that you?” she exclaimed as Johnnie Mortimer produced himself in all his youthful awkwardness, and advanced, looking a good deal abashed.

Johnnie replied that it was a half-holiday, and so he thought he would come and call.

Emily said she was glad to see him; indeed, she felt refreshed by the sight of anything that belonged to John.

“I thought I should like to—­to—­in short, to come and call,” repeated Johnnie, and he looked rather earnestly at his gloves, perhaps by way of occupation.  They were such as a Harrow boy seldom wears, excepting on “speech day”—­pale lilac.  As a rule Johnnie scorned gloves.  Emily observed that he was dressed with perfect propriety—­like a gentleman, in fact; his hair brushed, his tie neat, his whole outer boy clean, and got up regardless of trouble and expense.

“Well, you could not have come at a better time, dear boy,” said Emily, wondering what vagary he was indulging now, “for I have just got a present of a case of shells and birds from Ceylon, and you shall help me to unpack and arrange them, if you like.”

“I should like to do anything you please,” said Johnnie with alacrity.  “That’s what I meant, that’s what I came to say.”  Thereupon he smoothed the nap on his “chimneypot” hat, and blushed furiously.

The case was set upon the floor, on a piece of matting; it had already been opened, and was filling the room with a smell of sandal-wood and camphor.

Emily had risen, and when she paused, arrested by surprise at the oddness of this speech, he added, taking to his lisp again, as if from sheer embarrassment, “Thome fellows are a great deal worse than they theem.  No, I didn’t mean that; I mean thome fellows are a great deal better than they theem.”

“Now, Johnnie,” said Emily, laughing, and remembering a late visit of apology, “if any piece of mischief has got the better of you, and your father has sent you to say you are sorry for it, I’ll forgive you beforehand!  What is it?  Have you been rooting up my fences, or flooding my paddock?”