t his remark about being forgiven remain as casual as he had
evidently felt it; and it was something else that he had said which more
emphatically held her attention. She thought of it all the evening,
after he had gone; and, while her hair was being brushed, she looked at
her reflection in the mirror and saw herself in that time, "long ago."
It was as if Dick had shown her a dead thing, and had turned the key on
it with his quiet words of acquiescence.

She looked in the mirror. Surrounded by the softly falling radiance of
her hair, her face was still girlish in tint and outline; but already
her eyes had in them the depth of time lived through, her cheeks and
lips were differently sweet; and as the realization of time's swift
passage stole upon her, a vague, strong protest filled her, a sense of
deep, irremediable disappointment with life.

Dick Quentyn went that winter to Africa, and Milly gave her husband a
farewell all kindness and composure, when he came to bid Christina and
her good-bye. Composure was a habit, and she was unaware of a new
discontent and protest that stirred beneath it, though aware that the
kindness she felt for her husband was greater than what her words of
farewell expressed.

Dick always wrote punctually, once a fortnight, to his wife, short
bulletins, to which, as accurately and as laconically, she responded.
This winter the bulletins were often delayed, sometimes altogether
missing.

Dick had joined an exploring party, and his allusions, by the way, to
"Narrow shaves," "Nasty rows with natives," and "A rather beastly
fever," explained these irregularities.

"He really ought to write a book about it. They have evidently been in
danger, and had an heroic time of it altogether," Christina said, during
a sympathetic perusal of these documents which were always handed on to
her, as, for any intimacy they contained, they might have been handed on
to anybody. They began--"Dear Milly"; and ended--"Yours aff'ly, D. Q."
The "affectionately" was always abbreviated.

"I suppose they really are in a good deal of danger," said Milly,
nibbling at her toast,--they were at breakfast.

"That, I suppose, was what they went for," Christina replied, her eyes
passing over the letter.

Milly, leaning her elbow on the table, watched and read. "Poor Dick!"
she said presently.

Christina had laid down the letter and was going on with her coffee.

"Why poor, dear? It's what he enjoys."

"If he were killed