h. How
many times, when a Channel-packet came in, did she go to the doorway and
watch for old Mere Rossignol, making the rounds with her hand basket,
chanting the names of those for whom she had letters; and how many times
did she go back to the kitchen, choking down a sob!

The first letter from Philip was at once a blessing and a blow; it was
a reassurance and it was a misery. It spoke of bread, as it were, yet
offered a stone. It eloquently, passionately told of his love; but it
also told, with a torturing ease, that the Araminta was commissioned
with sealed orders, and he did not know when he should see her nor when
he should be able to write again. War had been declared against France,
and they might not touch a port nor have chance to send a letter by
a homeward vessel for weeks, and maybe months. This was painful, of
course, but it was fate, it was his profession, and it could not be
helped. Of course--she must understand--he would write constantly,
telling her, as through a kind of diary, what he was doing every day,
and then when the chance came the big budget should go to her.

A pain came to Guida's heart as she read the flowing tale of his buoyant
love. Had she been the man and he the woman, she could never have
written so smoothly of "fate," and "profession," nor told of this
separation with so complaisant a sorrow. With her the words would have
been wrenched forth from her heart, scarred into the paper with the
bitterness of a spirit tried beyond enduring.

With what enthusiasm did Philip, immediately after his heart-breaking
news, write of what the war might do for him; what avenues of
advancement it might open up, what splendid chances it would offer
for success in his career! Did he mean that to comfort her, she asked
herself. Did he mean it to divert her from the pain of the separation,
to give her something to hope for? She read the letter over and over
again--yet no, she could not, though her heart was so willing, find that
meaning in it. It was all Philip, Philip full of hope, purpose, prowess,
ambition. Did he think--did he think that that could ease the pain,
could lighten the dark day settling down on her? Could he imagine that
anything might compensate for his absence in the coming months, in
this year of all years in her life? His lengthened absence might be
inevitable, it might be fate, but could he not see the bitter cruelty of
it? He had said that he would be back with her again in two mon