A shout from the bottom of the shaft proclaims all right; and in due time, sitting in the noose of the rope, up comes Thomas Thurnall, bare-footed and bare-headed, in flannel trousers and red jersey, begrimed with slush and mud; with a mahogany face, a brick-red neck, and a huge brown beard, looking, to use his own expression, "as jolly as a sandboy." "A letter for you, Doctor, from Europe." Tom takes it, and his countenance falls; for it is black-edged and black-sealed.

The handwriting is Mary Armsworth's.
"I suppose the old lady who is going to leave me a fortune is dead," says he drily, and turns away to read.
"Bad luck, I suppose," he says to himself, "I have not had any for full six months, so I suppose it is time for Dame Fortune to give me a sly stab again.

I only hope it is not my father; for, begging the Dame's pardon, I can bear any trick of hers but that." And he sets his teeth doggedly, and reads.
"My dear Mr.Thurnall,--My father would have written himself, but he thought, I don't know why, that I could tell you better than he.

Your father is quite well in health,"-- Thurnall breathes freely again--"but he has had heavy trials since your poor brother William's death." Tom opens his eyes and sets his teeth more firmly.

"Willy dead?
I suppose there is a letter lost: better so; better to have the whole list of troubles together, and so get them sooner over.