ine as her
reader.'

'Dear me. And how are Sol and Dan? You mentioned them once in your
letters,' said Christopher.

'Berta has set them up as builders in London.'

'She bought a business for them,' said Chickerel. 'But Sol wouldn't
accept her help for a long time, and now he has only agreed to it on
condition of paying her back the money with interest, which he is doing.
They have just signed a contract to build a hospital for twenty thousand
pounds.'

Picotee broke in--'You knew that both Gwendoline and Cornelia married two
years ago, and went to Queensland? They married two brothers, who were
farmers, and left England the following week. Georgie and Myrtle are at
school.'

'And Joey?'

'We are thinking of making Joseph a parson,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'Indeed! a parson.'

'Yes; 'tis a genteel living for the boy. And he's talents that way.
Since he has been under masters he knows all the strange sounds the old
Romans and Greeks used to make by way of talking, and the love stories of
the ancient women as if they were his own. I assure you, Mr. Julian, if
you could hear how beautiful the boy tells about little Cupid with his
bow and arrows, and the rows between that pagan apostle Jupiter and his
wife because of another woman, and the handsome young gods who kissed
Venus, you'd say he deserved to be made a bishop at once!'

The evening advanced, and they walked in the garden. Here, by some
means, Picotee and Christopher found themselves alone.

'Your letters to my sister have been charming,' said Christopher. 'And
so regular, too. It was as good as a birthday every time one arrived.'

Picotee blushed and said nothing.

Christopher had full assurance that her heart was where it always had
been. A suspicion of the fact had been the reason of his visit here to-
day.

'Other letters were once written from England to Italy, and they acquired
great celebrity. Do you know whose?'

'Walpole's?' said Picotee timidly.

'Yes; but they never charmed me half as much as yours. You may rest
assured that one person in the world thinks Walpole your second.'

'You should not have read them; they were not written to you. But I
suppose you wished to hear of Ethelberta?'

'At first I did,' said Christopher. 'But, oddly enough, I got more
interested in the writer than in her news. I don't know if ever before
there has been an instance of loving by means of letters. If not, it is
because there have never