“Not very likely, if I know anything of John and myself.”

“What will you do for society?”

Flora thought, solitude would be a luxury and Mrs. Ready away—and she answered, carelessly, “We must be content with what Providence sends us.”

“Ah! but you may be miles from any habitation. No church—no schools for the children—no markets—no medical attendant—and with your poor health—think of that, Mrs. Lyndsay! And worse, far worse, no friends to sympathise and condole with you, in distress and difficulty.”

Now Flora was answering all these objections in her own mind; and, quite forgetful of Mrs. Ready’s presence, she unconsciously uttered her thoughts aloud—“These may be evils, but we shall at least be spared the annoyance of disagreeable visitors.”

Imprudent Flora—to think aloud before such a woman as Mrs. Ready. Who will venture to excuse such an eccentric proceeding? Would not the whole world blame you for your incorrigible blunder? It had, however, one good effect. It quickly cleared the room of your intrusive guest; who swept out of the apartment with a haughty “Good morning.” And well she might be offended; she had accidentally heard the truth, which no one else in the town dared have spoken boldly out.

Flora was astonished at her want of caution. She knew, however, that it was useless to apologise; and she felt perfectly indifferent as to the result; for she did not care, if she never saw Mrs. Ready again; and such a decided affront would render that event something more than doubtful.

“Thank heaven! she is gone,” burst heartily from her lips, when she found herself once more alone.

It was impossible for Mrs. Lyndsay to contemplate leaving England without great pain. The subject was so distressing to her feelings, that she endeavoured to forget it as much as she could. The manner in which it had been forced upon her by Mrs. Ready, was like probing a deep wound with a jagged instrument; and after that lady’s departure, she covered her face with her hands, and wept long and bitterly.

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CHAPTER V.
THE TRUE FRIEND.

Flora Lyndsay was aroused from the passionate indulgence of grief by two arms being passed softly around her neck, and some one pulling her head gently back upon their shoulder, and kissing her forehead.

“Flora,” whispered a sweet, gentle woman’s voice; “Dear Flora. I am come home at last. What, no word of welcome? No kiss for Mary? In tears, too. What is the matter? Are you ill? Is the baby ill? No—she at least is sleeping sweetly, and looks full of rosy health. Do speak, and tell me the meaning of all this!”

Flora was in the arms of her friend before she had ceased speaking. “A thousand welcomes! dear Mary. You are the very person I most wished just now to see. The very sight of you is an antidote to grief. ‘A remedy for sore eyes,’ as the Irish say. You have been too long away. When did you arrive?”

“By the mail—about an hour ago.”

“And your dear sister—?”

“Is gone to a happier home,” said Mary Parnell, in a faltering voice; and glancing down at her black dress, she continued, “she died happy—so happy, dear Flora, and now—she is happier still. But, we will not speak of her just now, Flora; I cannot bear it. Time, which reconciles us to every change, will teach me resignation to the Divine will. But ah! ’tis a sore trial to part with the cherished friend and companion of our early years. We were most attached sisters. Our hearts were one—and now—”

There was a pause. Both friends wept. Mary first regained her composure.

“How is Lyndsay? Has he finished writing his book?”

“The book is finished, and accepted by Mr. Bentley.”

“That is good, excellent news; and the darling baby?”

“Little Dormouse. There she lies at the end of the sofa, covered by my shawl. She has been sleeping ever since breakfast. I think she only wakes up to amuse papa. But she is beginning to stretch herself, and here comes the head-nurse himself.”

“Our dear Mary, returned!” cried Lyndsay, entering the room. “It seems an age since you left us.”

“It has been a melancholy separation to me,” said Mary. “This parting I hope will be the last. My father has consented to come and live with my brother; and now that dear Emily is gone, I shall have no inducement to leave home, so you will have me all to yourselves, whenever I can steal an hour from my domestic duties; and we shall once more be so happy together.”

Lyndsay looked at Flora, but neither spoke. Mary saw in a moment that there was some hidden meaning in that quick, intelligent glance; and she turned anxiously from one to the other.

“What mischief have you been plotting, during my absence?” cried the affectionate girl, taking a hand of each. “Some mystery is here—I read it in your eyes. I come to you striving to drown the remembrance of my own heavy sorrow, that we might enjoy a happy meeting: I find Flora in tears, and you, Lyndsay, looking grave and melancholy. What does it all mean?”

“Has not Flora told you?”

“Told me what?”

“That we are about to start for Canada.”

“Alas! no. This is sad news—worse than I expected. But are you really determined upon going?”

“Our preparations are almost completed.”

“Worse and worse. I hoped it might be only the whim of the moment—a castle, not of the air, but of the woods—and as easily demolished.”

“Let us draw back,” said Flora. “Lyndsay, dearest; the trial is too great.”

“It is too late now, Flora. Depend upon it, love, that God has ordered it, and that we act in conformity to the Divine will, and that all is for the best.”

“If such is your belief, my dear friend,” said Miss Parnell, “far be it from me to persuade you to stay. God orders all things for good. The present moment is the prophet of the future. It must decide your fate.”

“I have not acted hastily in this matter,” returned Lyndsay. “I have pondered over it long and anxiously, and I feel that my decision is right. The grief poor Flora feels at parting with her friends, is the greatest drawback. I thought that she possessed more strength of endurance. As for me, I have passed through the ordeal before, when I left Scotland for the Cape of Good Hope; and I now look upon myself as a citizen of the world. I know that Flora will submit cheerfully to the change, when once we lose sight of the British shores.”

“This then means the cause of Flora’s tears?”

“Not exactly,” said Flora, laughing. “That odious Mrs. Ready has been here, tormenting me with impertinent questions.”

“Flora, I’m ashamed of you,” said Lyndsay, “for suffering yourself to be annoyed by that stupid woman.”

“And worse than that, dear John, I got into a passion, and affronted her.”

“And what did Mrs. Grundy say?”

“Ah! it’s fine fun for you. But if you had been baited by her for a couple of hours, as I was, you could not have stood it much better than I did. Why, she had the impudence to insist upon my acting in direct opposition to your wishes; and all but insinuated that I was a fool not to take her advice.”

“A very serious offence, indeed,” said