ver been so severely wounded before. Maggie, on her
side, liked Grace better after the quarrel. She had never really
disliked her, she had only been irritated by her.

She thought it very natural of her to be angry and jealous about Paul.
She was determined that this month at Little Harben should put
everything right. Looking back over these past years she blamed herself
severely. She had been proud, self-centred, unfeeling. She remembered
that day so long ago at St. Dreot's when Aunt Anne had appealed for her
affection and she had made no reply. There had been many days, too, in
London when she had been rebellious and hard. She thought of that night
when Aunt Anne had suffered so terribly and she had wanted only her own
escape. Yes--hard and unselfish that was what she had been, and she had
been punished by losing Martin.

Already here, just as before in London, she was complaining and angry,
and unsympathetic. She did care for Paul--she could even love Grace if
she would let her. She would make everything right this summer and try
and be a better, kinder woman.

Then, one morning, she found a letter on the breakfast table. She did
not recognise the handwriting; when she opened it and saw the signature
at the end for a moment she also did not recognise that. "William
Magnus." ... Then--why, of course! Mr. Magnus! She saw him standing
looking down at her with his mild eyes, staring through his large
spectacles.

Her heart beat furiously. She waited until breakfast was over, then she
took it up to her bedroom.

The letter was as follows:

Dear Miss Maggie,

I know you are not "Miss Maggie" now, but that is the only way that I
can think of you. I expect that you have quite forgotten me, and
perhaps you don't want to hear from me, but I must not lose sight of
you altogether. I haven't so many friends that I can lose one without a
word. I don't know quite what to begin by telling you. I ought to ask
you questions about yourself, I suppose, but I know that your aunts
hear from you from time to time and they give me news from your
letters. I hear that you are happily married and are quite settled down
to your new life. I'm very glad to hear that, although it isn't quite
the life that I would have prophesied for you. Do you like Skeaton?
I've never cared much for seaside resorts myself, but then I'm a queer
cranky old man, and I deserve all I get. I wish I could tell you
something cheerful about all your friends here,