they have been recovered. Perhaps the copies are in Gordon's
own hand. They are, at all events, of an historic interest."

"In a way, no doubt," said Mather. "But even so, their recovery throws
no light upon the history of the siege. It can make no real difference
to any one, not even to the historian."

"That is true," Durrance agreed, and there was nothing more untrue. In
the same spot where he had sought for news of Feversham news had now
come to him--only he did not know. He was in the dark; he could not
appreciate that here was news which, however little it might trouble the
historian, touched his life at the springs. He dismissed the paragraph
from his mind, and sat thinking over the conversation which had passed
that afternoon between Ethne and himself, and without discouragement.
Ethne had mentioned Harry Feversham, it was true,--had asked for news of
him. But she might have been--nay, she probably had been--moved to ask
because her father's last words had referred to him. She had spoken his
name in a perfectly steady voice, he remembered; and, indeed, the mere
fact that she had spoken it at all might be taken as a sign that it had
no longer any power with her. There was something hopeful to his mind in
her very request that he should try during this one year to omit her
from his thoughts. For it seemed almost to imply that if he could not,
she might at the end of it, perhaps, give to him the answer for which he
longed. He allowed a few days to pass, and then called again at Mrs.
Adair's house. But he found only Mrs. Adair. Ethne had left London and
returned to Donegal. She had left rather suddenly, Mrs. Adair told him,
and Mrs. Adair had no sure knowledge of the reason of her going.

Durrance, however, had no doubt as to the reason. Ethne was putting into
practice the policy which she had commended to his thoughts. He was to
try to forget her, and she would help him to success so far as she could
by her absence from his sight. And in attributing this reason to her,
Durrance was right. But one thing Ethne had forgotten. She had not asked
him to cease to write to her, and accordingly in the autumn of that year
the letters began again to come from the Soudan. She was frankly glad to
receive them, but at the same time she was troubled. For in spite of
their careful reticence, every now and then a phrase leaped out--it
might be merely the repetition of some trivial sentence which she had
spoken long ago and long a