rived
as usual; for weary and disconsolate as was Piers's mood, there was
still no reference to a return; but during the week hope would again
lift up its head and whisper encouragement concerning "next time." So
elastic a thing is the human heart, that a bracing wind, a gleam of
sunshine through the fog, will send the spirits racing upwards, and open
out possibilities where the road has appeared hopelessly barred.

It was in such a mood that Vanna greeted her weekly letter one grey
morning in February. The night before she had spent a particularly
happy evening with Jean and Robert, who had appeared in better spirits
than since the beginning of their trouble. Little Vanna had developed a
fresh set of baby charms, and had allowed herself to be nursed with
bland complacence, and on returning to her own house Robert had spoken a
few memorable words when saying good-bye: "Every day of my life I thank
God for you, Vanna! Such a friend is a big gift. You have been a good
angel to us this last year." The memory of those words had been a good
sleeping-draught; the warmth of them remained to cheer her as she
dressed in the morning, and when her eye fell on the well-known envelope
on the breakfast table, a little leap of the heart prophesied good news.
To-day it seemed fitting that her waiting should come to an end.

It was a thin envelope. One sheet of paper replaced the usual three.
So much the better. Four words would be sufficient to say all that she
wanted to know. Vanna seated herself at the table, and bent eagerly
over the sheet.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"My Dearest and Best--

"I have your last letter beside me, and have been reading it over and
over, wondering how to answer all that is written between the lines.
I can read it, Vanna; I have read it for a long time, but have not had
courage to reply. You are too sweet and unselfish to allow yourself
to write what is really in your thoughts, but I know you so well--you
are no calm, equable, cold-blooded saint; you must have known many
moments of bitterness, of anger, of resentment. I know it; I
understand; I bless you for your patience. _Why have I not come home
to you_? That is the question you are asking me across the world; the
question I can almost hear spoken in my ear. You know by my letters
that I am miserable and alone; you must have heard by this time that
Brentford is