“And Jarvis—­how is he?  I am very fond of Jarvis.  I suppose he has lost some of the summer’s tan?”

“If he has it’s been put back again by the frosty winds, for he’s the image of health.  Mr. Ferry and Janet are very much themselves, too.  And they all sent you something.”  Sally reached under the berth and drew out a big florists’ box, signalled the waiter to remove the remains of the breakfast, and then spread forth the cards which accompanied the great bunch of crimson roses, enjoying Mr. Rudd’s almost boyish pleasure in the remembrance of his friends.

“These must be for you too, Sally,” said he, burying his nose in one fine half-open bud.

“Not a bit of it.”

“No flowers for you, child?”

“Fruit and chocolates and writing-tablets and other delightful things.  You must have some of the grapes, Uncle Timmy—­I ought to have thought of them for your breakfast.”

“These roses are as good as a square meal—­but they should have been for you, not for an old fossil like me.”

“Don’t you dare call yourself an old fossil, Uncle Timmy.  Now look at all these pretty gifts,” and Sally brought them forth, exhibiting them well concealed from the other passengers.  Uncle Timothy looked and exclaimed and admired, and did not note that one person seemed to be unrepresented by any remembrance.  Neither did he guess that tucked far away under Sally’s berth was a box containing a mass of sweet peas which had that morning been carefully sprinkled, but which were destined never to be seen again by mortal eye except her own.

CHAPTER XVIII

FROM APRIL NORTH

During a winter which seemed, in spite of all the beauties of the far South, the longest she had ever known, Sally was kept well in touch with affairs at home by the letters.  If it had not been for these she thought she could hardly have waited for the spring to come.  Mr. Rudd had gained slowly but positively throughout the winter, yet it was not thought best for him to come home until the spring should be well advanced.  The first of May was the date set, and proved a judicious choice, for April was a cold and rainy month.  There was just one odd fact about this month of April—­during its course Sally received at least one letter from every member of her own family and from each one of those other two families most closely connected with her history.  In an idle hour one day, just before she went home, she carefully selected one letter from each of these correspondents, in the order received, and tied them in a bunch, labelling them “April North to April South.”  Whatever may have happened to other letters, this packet remained in her possession for many years.

The first of them arrived on April fourth, and was in the round, school-boy hand of young Robert Lane.

“DEAR SALLY: