"I have
had great news by the post, Constance."
"From Germany?" she quickly cried.
"Yes, from Germany," he answered, taking a letter from his pocket, and
spreading it open before Constance.
It contained the bravest news: great news, as Hamish expressed it. It
was from Mr. Channing himself, and it told them of his being so far
restored that there was no doubt now of his ability to resume his own
place at his office. They intended to be home the first week in
November. The weather at Borcette continued warm and charming, and they
would prolong their stay there to the full time contemplated. It had
been a fine autumn everywhere. There was a postscript added to the
letter, as if an afterthought had occurred to Mr. Channing. "When you
see Mr. Huntley, tell him how well I am progressing. I remember, by the
way, that he hinted at being able to introduce you to something, should
I no longer require you in Guild Street."
In the delight that the news brought, Constance partially lost sight of
her sadness. "It is not all gloom," she whispered to herself. "If we
could only dwell on God's mercies as we do on His chastisement; if we
could only feel more trust, we should see the bright side of the cloud
oftener than we do."
But it _was_ dark; dark in many ways, and Constance was soon to be
reminded again of it forcibly. She had taken her seat at the tea-table,
when Tom came in. He looked flushed--stern; and he flung his Gradus,
and one or two other books in a heap, on the side table, with more
force than was necessary; and himself into a chair, ditto.
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