‘So do I,’ said Alie.  ’Of course I didn’t like it as much as this, for this garden is so sweet and the country all about here is so beautiful, and then it’s so nice to be near grandmamma.  But Seacove had a great charm about it too.’

‘The sea,’ said Biddy—­’the sea and the sunsets,’ she went on half dreamily; ‘I always think when I see a red sunset——­’ but then she stopped.  There are some thoughts that one keeps quite in one’s own mind!

‘I always feel grateful to Seacove,’ she said after a moment’s pause.  ’Mamma is quite sure that the three years we lived there did more than anything to make papa strong again.  What a blessing it is that he is so well now!’

’And quite able for all his work here, though he could never stand London again,’ said Alie.  ’I wish Rough had gone into the Church too, Bride—­that is to say, I wish he had wished it.  Then we should have had him somewhere near us, instead of far away in India,’ and she gave a little sigh.

‘But he’s getting on so well—­he was just made to be a soldier,’ said Biddy.  ’And papa says it is like that.  Some people just feel what they’re meant to be.  And Rough is a great comfort, even though he has to be away—­and you know, Alie,’ she went on quite gravely, ’I don’t think there could have been another as good as papa, not in the same way:  he’s just nearly an angel.’  Alie did not disagree.  ’And Roughie will be home before your next birthday, you know.’

‘I hope so indeed,’ said Rosalys.

‘Talking about long ago,’ went on Bride, to whom eight or nine years were still a very ‘long ago,’ ’reminds me of dear little Celestina.  What ages it is since we have heard of her—­not since the year her father died, and we were afraid they were left rather badly off.  How strange it seems, Alie, doesn’t it? that poor Mr. Fairchild should have died and papa got well, when you think how ill papa was and that he seemed quite well then.’

‘He was always delicate—­Mr. Fairchild, I mean,’ said Rosalys.  ’But it was very sad; they were so very fond of him.  But, Biddy, we have heard of Celestina since then—­don’t you remember, mamma wrote to tell Madame d’Ermont of their trouble, and she wrote to Mrs. Fairchild inviting them to visit her?  They couldn’t go—­not then—­but mamma had another letter, thanking her and telling us where they were going to live.  Still all that is a good while ago, and when mamma wrote again her letter was returned.’

‘How kind they were to us at Seacove!’ said Bridget.  ’I would love to see Celestina again—­fancy, she must be grown up.’

What I am now going to tell you will seem to some people ’too strange to be true,’ but begging these wise people’s pardon, I cannot agree with them.  Strange things of the kind—­coincidences, they are sometimes called—­have happened to me myself, too often, for me not to believe that ‘there is something in it.’  In plain words, I believe that our spirits are sometimes conscious of each other’s nearness much sooner than our clumsy bodies are.  How very often is one met with the remark, ‘Why, we were just speaking of you!’ How often does the thought of some distant friend suddenly start into our memories an hour or two before the post brings us a letter penned by the dear far-away fingers!