Ralph began his bread and milk, and Mrs. Conway, stretching out her hand, took the letter he had laid beside his plate, and turning it over glanced at the direction to ascertain from which of her few correspondents it came.  For a moment she looked puzzled, then, with a little start, she laid it down by the side of her plate.  She had recognized the handwriting once so familiar to her.

“What is it, mother?  You look quite startled.  Who is it from?”

“It is from no one you know, Ralph.  I think it is from a person I have not heard from for some years.  At any rate it will keep until you are off to school.”

“It’s nothing unpleasant, I hope, mother.  Your color has quite gone, and you look downright pale.”

“What should be the matter, you silly boy?” Mrs. Conway said, with an attempt to smile.  “What could there be unpleasant in a letter from a person I have not heard from for years?  There, go on with your breakfast.  I expect you will hear some news when you get down into the town, for the guns in the castle have been firing, and I suppose there is news of a victory.  They said yesterday that a great battle was expected to be fought against Napoleon somewhere near Leipzig.”

“Yes; I heard the guns, mother, and I expect there has been a victory.  I hope not.”

“Why do you hope not, Ralph?”

“Why, of course, mother, I don’t want the French to be beaten—­not regularly beaten, till I am old enough to have a share in it.  Just fancy what a nuisance it would be if peace was made just as I get my commission.”

“There will be plenty of time for you, Ralph,” his mother said smiling.  “Peace has been patched up once or twice, but it never lasts long; and after fighting for the last twenty years it is hardly probable that the world is going to grow peaceful all at once.  But there, it is time for you to be off; it only wants ten minutes to nine and you will have to run fast all the way to be in time.”

When Mrs. Conway was alone she took up the letter, and turned it over several times before opening it.

What could Herbert Penfold have written about after all these years?  Mrs. Conway was but thirty-six years old now, and was still a pretty woman, and a sudden thought sent a flush of color to her face.  “Never!” she said decidedly.  “After the way in which he treated me he cannot suppose that now—­” and then she stopped.  “I know I did love him once, dearly, and it nearly broke my heart; but that was years and years ago.  Well, let us see what he says for himself,” and she broke open the letter.  She glanced through it quickly, and then read it again more carefully.  She was very pale now, and her lips trembled as she laid down the letter.

“So,” she said to herself in a low tone, “it is to him after all I owe all this,” and she looked round her pretty room; “and I never once really suspected it.  I am glad now,” she went on after a pause, “that I did not; for, of course, it would have been impossible to have taken it, and how different the last twelve years of my life would have been.  Poor Herbert!  And so he really suffered too, and he has thought of me all this time.”