Her room had been turned out, cleaned, and made ready for a new boarder, and Prudence, who had sent on the additional thirty pounds to good Mrs. Brown, was congratulating herself on having acted with great promptitude, foresight, and caution, under trying and exceptional circumstances.
Her main idea now was to hear from the widow of the explorer whose fatal Water of Youth had proved the direful spring of all her woes. Night and day she considered the subject. Was there an antidote? If not, would her sister ever grow up? If she did grow up, would she grow up normally? Had she really, as Prudence thought, preserved her memory and understanding? Was she to be treated exactly like an ordinary baby? and, if not, in what respects should a difference be made? Should she be sent to school later on? Would her intelligence grow or lessen? All these racking questions, to which she could give no answer, tormented the younger Miss Semaphore continually.
When, sooner than she had ventured to hope, she found a letter lying on the hall-table addressed to her, in a foreign handwriting, and bearing the Paris post-mark, the
