“Your colleague and friend, Ferdinand Lind.”

This was all that an ordinary reader would have seen in the letter; but Brand observed also, down at the left-hand corner, a small mark in green color.  That tiny arrow, with the two dots—­the whole almost invisible—­changed the letter from an invitation into a command.  It signified “On business of the Council.”

He laid down the letter, and said lightly to Natalie,

“Now I have some news for you.  I may not have to go to America after all.”

“You are not going to America?” she said, in a bewildered way.  “Oh, if it were possible—­if it were possible!” she murmured, “I would say I was too happy.  God is too good to me—­to have them both given back to me in one day—­both of them in one day—­”

“Natalie,” said he, gently, “it is only a possibility, you know.”

“But it is possible!” she said; and there was a quick, strange, happy light in her face.  “It is possible, is it not?”

Then she glanced at her mother; and her face, that had been somewhat pale, was pale no longer; the blood mounted to her forehead; her eyes were downcast.

“It would please you, would it not?” she said, somewhat formally and in a low and timid voice.  The mother, unobserved, smiled.

“Oh yes,” he said, cheerfully.  “But even if I go to America, expect your mother and you to be arriving at Sandy Hook; and what then?  In a couple of years—­it is not a long time—­I should have a small steamer there to meet you, and we could sail up the bay together.”

Luncheon over, they went to the window, and greatly admired the view of the gardens below and the wide river beyond; and they went round the room examining the water-colors, and bits of embroidery, and knickknacks brought from many lands, and they were much interested in one or two portraits.  Altogether they were charmed with the place, though the elder lady said, in her pretty, careful French, that it was clear no woman’s hand was about, otherwise there would have been white curtains at the windows besides those heavy straight folds of red.  Brand said he preferred to have plenty of light in the room; and, in fact, at this moment the sunlight was painting squares of beautiful color on the faded old Turkey-carpet.  All this time Natalie had shown much reserve.

When the mother and daughter were in the cab together going to Edgware Road—­George Brand was off by himself to Brompton—­the mother said,

“Natalushka, why was your manner so changed to Mr. Brand, after you heard he might not be going to America?”

The girl hesitated for a moment, and her eyes were lowered.

“You see, mother,” she said, with some embarrassment, “when one is in great trouble and difficulty—­and when you wish to show sympathy—­then, perhaps, you speak too plainly.  You do not think of choosing very prudent words; your heart speaks for you; and one may say things that a girl should not be too ready to confess.  That is when there is great trouble, and you are grieved for some one.  But—­but—­when the trouble goes away—­when it is all likely to come right—­one remembers—­”