“So, Dame Trot,” observed my guardian, shutting up his book, one night when we were all three together; “so, Woodcourt has restored Caddy Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?”

“Yes,” I said; “and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers, is to be made rich, guardian.”

“I wish it was,” he returned, “with all my heart.”

So did I too, for that matter. I said so.

“Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew, if we knew how. Would we not, little woman?”

I laughed as I worked, and replied that I was not sure about that, for it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there might be many who could ill spare him. As Miss Flite, and Caddy herself, and many others.

“True,” said my guardian. “I had forgotten that. But we would agree to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough to work with tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own happy home, and his own household gods — and household goddess too, perhaps?”

That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.

“To be sure,” said my guardian. “All of us. I have a great regard for Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an independent man, with that just kind of pride which he possesses. And yet I would be glad to do it if I might, or if I knew how. He seems half inclined for another voyage. But that appears like casting such a man away.”

“It might open a new world to him,” said I.

“so it might, little woman,” my guardian assented. “I doubt if he expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that he sometimes feels some particular disappointment, or misfortune, encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?”

I shook my head.

“Humph,” said my guardian. “I am mistaken, I dare say.”

As there was a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl’s satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I worked which was a favourite with my guardian.

“And do you think Mr Woodcourt will make another voyage?” I asked him, when I had hummed it quietly all through.

“I don’t quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country.”

“I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him wherever he goes,” said I; “and though they are not riches, he will never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least.”

“Never, little woman,” he replied.

I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian’s chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite; and I saw, as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears, and that tears were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be placid and merry, once for all to undeceive my dear, and set her loving heart at rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.