‘I’d have got there somehow,’ cried Maurice.  ’I’d have seen and heard Gilbert.  He’s written me a letter to say he wants to see me, and I can’t even make that out!’

‘Has not your sister read it to you!’

‘I hate Sophy’s reading!’ cried Maurice.  ’It makes it all grumpy, like her.  Take it, Ulick—­you read it.’

That rich, sensitive, modulated voice brought out the meaning of the letter, though there were places where Ulick had nearly broken down; and Maurice pressed against him with the large tears in his eyes, and was some minutes without speaking.

‘He does not think of your coming; he does not expect you, dear boy,’ said Ulick.  ’It is a precious letter to have.  I hope you will keep it and read it often, and heed it too.’

‘I can’t read it,’ said Maurice, ruefully.  ’If I could, I shouldn’t mind.’

’You soon will.  You see how he tells you you are to be a comfort; and if you are a good boy, you’ll quickly leave the dunce behind.’

‘I can’t,’ said Maurice.  ’Mamma said I should not do a bit of a lesson with Sophy, or I should tease her heart out.  Would it come quite out?’

‘Well, I think you’ve gone hard to try to-day,’ said Ulick.

’Mamma said my being able to read would be a comfort, and papa says he never saw such an ignorant boy! so what’s the use of minding Gilbert’s letter?  It wont let me.’

‘What wont let you?’

‘Fun!’ said Maurice, with a sob.

‘He is a rogue!’ cried Ulick, vehemently; ’but a stout heart and good will can get him under yet.  Think of what your brother says of making your father and mother happy!’

’If I could do something to please them very, very much!  Oh! if I could but learn to read all at once.’

‘You can read—­anybody can read!’ said Ulick, pulling a book out of his pocket.  ‘There! try.’

There was some laughing over this; and then Maurice leant out of window, and grew sleepy.  They had descended into the wide basin of alluvial land through which the Baye dawdled its meandering course, and were just about to cross the first bridge about two miles from Bayford, when Maurice shouted, ‘There’s Sophy!—­how funny.’

It was a tall figure, in deep mourning, slowly moving along the towing-path, intently gazing into the river; but so strange was it to see Sophy so far from home, that Ulick paused a moment ere calling to the driver to stop.

As he hastily wrenched open the door, she raised up her face, and he was shocked.  She looked as if she had lived years of sorrow, and even Maurice was struck with consternation.

‘Sophy!  Sophy!’ he cried, hanging round her.  ’I wouldn’t have gone without telling you, if I had thought you would mind it.  Speak to me, Sophy!’

She could say nothing save a hoarse ‘Where?’ as with both arms she pressed him as if she could never let him go again.

‘In the train—­intending to go to Malta,’ said Ulick.