A year or so of uncertainty, of suspense, of wailing, and then came a letter from Willy, cautiously sent.  It was not addressed directly to Mrs. Gum, to whom it was written, but to one of Willy’s acquaintances in London, who enclosed it in an envelope and forwarded it on.

Such a letter!  To read it one might have thought Mr. William Gum had gone out under the most favourable auspices.  He was in Australia; had gone up to seek his fortune at the gold-diggings, and was making money rapidly.  In a short time he should refund with interest the little sum he had borrowed from Goldsworthy and Co., and which was really not taken with any ill intention, but was more an accident than anything else.  After that, he should accumulate money on his own score, and—­all things being made straight at home—­return and settle down, a rich man for life.  And she—­his mother—­might rely on his keeping his word.  At present he was at Melbourne; to which place he and his mates had come to bring their acquired gold, and to take a bit of a spree after their recent hard work.  He was very jolly, and after a week’s holiday they should go back again.  And he hoped his father had overlooked the past; and he remained ever her affectionate son, William Gum.

The effect of this letter upon Mrs. Gum was as though a dense cloud had suddenly lifted from the world, and given place to a flood of sunshine.  We estimate things by comparison.  Mrs. Gum was by nature disposed to look on the dark side of things, and she had for the whole year past been indulging the most dread pictures of Willy and his fate that any woman’s mind ever conceived.  To hear that he was in life, and well, and making money rapidly, was the sweetest news, the greatest relief she could ever experience in this world.

Clerk Gum—­relieved also, no doubt—­received the tidings in a more sober spirit; almost as if he did not dare to believe in them.  The man’s heart had been well-nigh broken with the blow that fell upon him, and nothing could ever heal it thoroughly again.  He read the letter in silence; read it twice over; and when his wife broke out into a series of rapt congratulations, and reproached him mildly for not appearing to think it true, he rather cynically inquired what then, if true, became of her dreams.

For Mrs. Gum was a dreamer.  She was one of those who are now and again visited by strange dreams, significant of the future.  Poor Mrs. Gum carried these dreams to an excess; that is, she was always having them and always talking about them.  It had been no wonder, with her mind in so miserable a state regarding her son, that her dreams in that first twelve-month had generally been of him and generally bad.  The above question, put by her husband, somewhat puzzled her.  Her dreams had foreshadowed great evil still to Willy; and her dreams had never been wrong yet.

But, in the enjoyment of positive good, who thinks of dreams?  No one.  And Mrs. Gum’s grew a shade brighter, and hope again took possession of her heart.