o try and separate them was to deal a blow at her son of
which she was incapable; and at the same time there was the gnawing
anxiety lest their absurd "friendship" should stand in the way of her
boy's marriage--should "queer the pitch" for the future.

Meanwhile, day by day, Tatham's letters travelled south to Lydia, and
twice a week or thereabout, letters addressed in a clear and beautiful
handwriting arrived by an evening post from the south. And gradually
Victoria became aware of new forces and new growths in her son. "What
does she write to you about?" she had said to him once, with her
half-sarcastic smile. And after a little hesitation--silently, Tatham had
handed over to her the letter of the afternoon. "I'd like you to see it,"
he had said simply. "She makes one think a lot."

And, indeed, it was a remarkable letter, full of poetry but also full of
fun. The humours of Delorme's studio--a play she had seen in London--a
book she had read--the characteristics of a Somersetshire village--the
eager pen ran on without effort, without pretence. But it was the pen of
youth, of feeling, of romance; and it revealed the delicate heart and
mind of a woman. There was a liberal education in it; and Victoria
watched the process at work, sometimes with jealousy, sometimes with
emotion. After all, might it not be a mere stage--and a useful one. She
reserved her judgment, waiting for the time when these two should meet
again, face to face.

September was more than halfway through, when one morning Tatham tossed a
letter to his mother across the breakfast table with the remark:

"I say, mother, the new broom doesn't seem to be sweeping very well!"

The letter was from Undershaw. Tatham--in whom the rural reformer was
steadily developing--kept up a fairly regular correspondence with the
active young doctor, on medical and sanitary matters, connected with
his own estate and the county.

"Matters are going rather oddly in this neighbourhood. I must say I can't
make Faversham out. You remember what an excellent beginning he seemed to
make a couple of months ago. Colonel Barton told me that he had every
hope of him; he was evidently most anxious to purge some at least of Mr.
Melrose's misdeeds; seemed businesslike, conciliatory, etc. Well, I
assure you, he has done almost nothing! It is not really a question of
giving him time. There were certain scandalous things, years old, that he
ought to have put right _at once_--on the nail-