‘I cannot do without you any longer, my dear Gladys,’ I wrote.  ’There is so much that I want to talk to you about, and that I cannot write.  I have heard something that has greatly excited me, and that makes me think that your view of the case is right, and that your brother Eric is alive.  Of course we must not be too sanguine, but I begin to have hopes that you may see him again.’

More than this I did not venture to say, but I knew that these few words would make Gladys set her face homeward:  she would not rest until she asked me my meaning.  As I gave Clayton the letter I felt convinced that before a week was over Gladys would find her way to Heathfield.

I had to give all my attention to Jill after this; but, though she hung about me in her old affectionate way, I felt that I should leave her far happier than she had ever been before, and she did not deny this, only begged me to come and see them sometimes.

‘You know I can’t do without you, you darling bear,’ she finished, with one of her old hugs.

I was still more touched by Aunt Philippa’s regret at parting with me; she said so many kind things; and, to my surprise, Uncle Brian relaxed from his usual coldness, and quite warmed into demonstration.

‘Come to us as often as you can, Ursula,’ he said.  ’Your aunt and I will be only too pleased to see you.’  And then he asked me, a little anxiously, if I found my small income sufficient for my needs.

I assured him that my wants were so few, and Mrs. Barton was so economical, that but for my poorer neighbours I could hardly use it all.

‘Well, well,’ he returned, putting a handsome cheque in my hands, ’you can always draw on me when you feel disposed.  I suppose you like pretty things as much as other girls.’  And he would not let me even thank him for his generosity.

Aunt Philippa only smiled when I showed her the cheque.

’My dear, your uncle likes to do it, and you must not be too proud to accept his gifts:  you may need it some day.  We have only two daughters:  as it is, Jocelyn will be far too rich.  I do not like the idea that Harley’s child should want anything.’  And she kissed me with tears in her eyes.

Dear Aunt Philippa! she had grown quite motherly during those three weeks.

It was a lovely June afternoon:  when I started from Victoria there was a scent of hay in the air.  Jill had brought with her to the station a great basketful of roses and narcissus and heliotrope, and had put it on the seat beside me that its fragrance might refresh me.

I felt a strange sort of excitement and pleasure at the thought of returning home.  Mrs. Barton would be glad to get me back, I knew.  Uncle Max would not be at the station to meet me, for he had written to say that he was still detained at Norwich.  His cousin was dead, and had left him her little property,—­some six or seven hundred a year.  There were some valuable books and antiquities, and some old silver besides.  He was the only near relation, and business connected with the property would oblige him to remain for another week or ten days.  I was rather sorry to hear this, for Heathfield was not the same without Uncle Max.