nothing to distinguish this envelope, and yet her first glance at it had startled her; and when, deciphering the smudged post-mark, she made out the word ‘Bursley,’ her heart did literally seem to stop, and she opened the letter in quite violent tremulation, thinking to herself:  “The doctor would say this is very bad for me.”  Six days had elapsed since her attack, and she was wonderfully better; the distortion of her face had almost disappeared.  But the doctor was grave; he ordered no medicine, merely a tonic; and monotonously insisted on ’repose the most absolute,’ on perfect mental calm.  He said little else, allowing Sophia to judge from his silences the seriousness of her condition.  Yes, the receipt of such a letter must be bad for her!

She controlled herself while she read it, lying in her dressing-gown against several pillows on the bed; a mist did not form in her eyes, nor did she sob, nor betray physically that she was not reading an order for two rooms for a week.  But the expenditure of nervous force necessary to self-control was terrific.

Constance’s handwriting had changed; it was, however, easily recognizable as a development of the neat calligraphy of the girl who could print window-tickets.  The ‘S’ of Sophia was formed in the same way as she had formed it in the last letter which she had received from her at Axe!

“My darling Sophia,

“I cannot tell you how overjoyed I was to learn that after all these years you are alive and well, and doing so well too.  I long to see you, my dear sister.  It was Mr. Peel-Swynnerton who told me.  He is a friend of Cyril’s.  Cyril is the name of my son.  I married Samuel in 1867.  Cyril was born in 1874 at Christmas.  He is now twenty-two, and doing very well in London as a student of sculpture, though so young.  He won a National Scholarship.  There were only eight, of which he won one, in all England.  Samuel died in 1888.  If you read the papers you must have seen about the Povey affair.  I mean of course Mr. Daniel Povey, Confectioner.  It was that that killed poor Samuel.  Poor mother died in 1875.  It doesn’t seem so long.  Aunt Harriet and Aunt Maria are both dead.  Old Dr. Harrop is dead, and his son has practically retired.  He has a partner, a Scotchman.  Mr. Critchlow has married Miss Insull.  Did you ever hear of such a thing?  They have taken over the shop, and I live in the house part, the other being bricked up.  Business in the Square is not what it used to be.  The steam trams take all the custom to Hanbridge, and they are talking of electric trams, but I dare say it is only talk.  I have a fairly good servant.  She has been with me a long time, but servants are not what they were.  I keep pretty well, except for my sciatica and palpitation.  Since Cyril went to London I have been very lonely.  But I try to cheer up and count my blessings.  I am sure I have a great deal to be thankful for.  And now this news of you!  Please write to me a