tion, and now in the happiness of spring, sorrow and bitterness were
with her still. She loved him, she longed for his presence, and it was
denied to her. She could not console herself as can some women, nor
did her deep passion wear away; on the contrary, it seemed to grow and
gather with every passing week. Neither did she wish to lose it,
she loved too well for that. It was better to be thus tormented by
conscience and by hopelessness than to lose her cause of pain.

One consolation Beatrice had and one only: she knew that Geoffrey did
not forget her. His letters told her this. These letters indeed were
everything to her--a woman can get so much more comfort out of a letter
than a man. Next to receiving them she loved to answer them. She was a
good and even a brilliant letter writer, but often and often she would
tear up what she had written and begin again. There was not much news
in Bryngelly; it was difficult to make her letters amusing. Also the
farcical nature of the whole proceeding seemed to paralyse her. It was
ridiculous, having so much to say, to be able to say nothing. Not that
Beatrice wished to indite love-letters--such an idea had never crossed
her mind, but rather to write as they had talked. Yet when she tried to
do so the results were not satisfactory to her, the words looked strange
on paper--she could not send them.

In Geoffrey's meteor-like advance to fame and fortune she took the
keenest joy and interest, far more than he did indeed. Though, like that
of most other intelligent creatures, her soul turned with loathing
from the dreary fustian of politics, she would religiously search the
parliamentary column from beginning to end on the chance of finding his
name or the notice of a speech by him. The law reports also furnished
her with a happy hunting-ground in which she often found her game.

But they were miserable months. To rise in the morning, to go through
the round of daily duty--thinking of Geoffrey; to come home wearied, and
finally to seek refuge in sleep and dreams of him--this was the sum of
them. Then there were other troubles. To begin with, things had gone
from bad to worse at the Vicarage. The tithes scarcely came in at all,
and every day their poverty pinched them closer. Had it not been for
Beatrice's salary it was difficult to see how the family could have
continued to exist. She gave it almost all to her father now, only
keeping back a very small sum for her necessary clothing