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After her father had left the room Christian lay still on the sofa, her arms around her mother's neck and her head buried against Mrs. Mitford's soft white neck. She had ceased to sob. She had almost ceased to feel.

By and by Mrs. Mitford roused the child.

"The years will pass quickly; your father and I will think of you, and the years will go by with lightning speed. Soon we shall be together again."

"Oh, no, mother," answered Christian; "it will be a long time—a long time!"

"You think so, dearest, but you are mistaken. Now, go to bed, darling; I daren't allow you to trouble yourself any longer. You must sleep, Christian, for my sake, or we shall both be ill to-morrow when we most want to be fresh and bright."

"Suppose, mother, I were to write you; when would you get the letter?"

"You had better write straight to Bombay. Your father and I will spend some weeks there before we proceed to Persia. You can write when you are settled at school. Here is the address."

Mrs. Mitford opened her desk, took out an envelope carefully addressed and stamped, and put it into the young girl's hand.