“But oh, Lu, how you have been crying!  Is it about the sick little sisters?”

“Partly,” Lulu answered, hardly able to speak for emotion, “for they are still in great danger; but oh, much worse than that! they say—­that—­that it’s feared papa’s ship is lost with—­all on board.  Oh, Eva, I’ve been so disobedient to my father for months past, and now—­I’m afraid I’ll never, never see him again!”

Before she had finished her sentence, Evelyn’s arms were around her, holding her close, while she wept with her.

“I can feel for you, dear,” she sobbed, “for I know only too well how dreadful it is to be fatherless; but it is only a report, which may be false.  Do try to hope for the best.  We will both pray for your dear father, if he is still living; and for the little ones, that they may get well.”

After her long trial of the privations to be endured at Oakdale Academy, Lulu greatly enjoyed the comforts and luxuries of Magnolia Hall; yet the suspense in regard to her father and little sisters was very hard to bear.

For two days longer there was no relief from that, but on the morning of the third, Max came bounding in on his return from Viamede, where he had been to make his usual inquiries about Grace and the baby, his face glowing with happiness.

“Oh, Lulu, good, good news!” he cried, tossing up his cap and capering about in the exuberance of his joy; “the children are considered out of danger if well taken care of—­and we know they’ll be that; and papa’s ship has been heard from, all well on board; and we’ll see him again, I do believe; perhaps before a great while!”

Lulu wept for joy.  “Oh, I am so glad, so happy!” she sobbed; “but oh, how I do want to see papa! the children too.  Can’t I go to them now, Max?”

“No, not yet; they wouldn’t let me go into the wing where they are.  I mean the doctors wouldn’t; because the danger of contagion is not over, and won’t be for a week or more.”

“So long to wait?” she sighed.

“Yes,” Max said, “but we ought to wait very patiently, now that we have had such glorious news.  And perhaps there’ll be letters from papa by to-morrow.”

His hope was fulfilled:  the next morning’s mail brought letters from Captain Raymond to his wife and each of his children—­the baby, of course, excepted.

Max handed Lulu hers.

She almost snatched it from him in her joy and eagerness, and hurried with it to her room, where she could be quite alone at this hour, Evelyn being at school; for she was finishing out the term, not having the same reason for leaving before its close that Max and Lulu had.

But now that she held the precious, longed-for missive in her hand, Lulu could scarce find courage to open and read it; because she had good reason to expect a severe reprimand from the father, whom, in spite of their mutual love, she had been persistently disobeying for the last three months.  She would have given much to recall that past, and feel herself deserving of his commendation and such words of tender fatherly affection as he had often addressed to her by both tongue and pen.