creasing feeling of accustomedness to the change
in her life was doing it for her. She said more in her letters, and said
it in a more interesting way. It was perhaps rather suggestive of the
development of a girl who was on the verge of becoming a delightful sort
of woman.

Lying upon his back in bed, rendered, it may be, a trifle susceptible by
the weakness of slow convalescence, he found a certain habit growing
upon him--a habit of reading her letters several times, and of thinking
of her as it had not been his nature to think of women; also he slowly
awakened to an interest in the arrival of the English mails. The letters
actually raised his spirits and had an excellent physical effect. His
doctor always found him in good condition after he had heard from his
wife.

"Your letters, my dear Emily," Walderhurst once wrote, "are a great
pleasure to me. You are to-day exactly as you were at Mallowe,--the
creature of amiable good cheer. Your comfort stimulates me."

"How _dear_, how _dear_?" Emily cried to the silence of the study, and
kissed the letter with impassioned happiness.

[Illustration: Lady Maria Bayne]

The next epistle went even farther. It absolutely contained "things" and
referred to the past which it was her joy to pour libations before in
secret thought. When her eye caught the phrase "the days at Mallowe" in
the middle of a sheet, she was almost frightened at the rush of pleasure
which swept over her. Men who were less aloof from sentimental moods
used such phrases in letters, she had read and heard. It was almost as
if he had said "the dear old days at Mallowe" or "the happy days at
Mallowe," and the rapture of it was as much as she could bear.

"I cannot help remembering as I lie here," she read in actual letters as
she went on, "of the many thoughts which passed through my mind as I
drove over the heath to pick you up. I had been watching you for days. I
always liked particularly your clear, large eyes. I recall trying to
describe them to myself and finding it difficult. They seemed to me then
to resemble something between the eyes of a very nice boy and the eyes
of a delightful sheep-dog. This may not appear so romantic a comparison
as it really is."

Emily began most softly and sweetly to cry. Nothing more romantic could
she possibly have imagined.

"I thought of them in spite of myself as I drove across the moor, and I
could scarcely express to you how angry I was at Maria. It seemed to me