he was a man. She, Hilda, with
her independence and her mystery, had inspired him with a full pride of
manhood. And he discovered that one of the chief attributes of a man is
an immense tenderness.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE MARRIAGE.

He was more proud and agitated than happy. The romance of the affair,
and its secrecy, made him proud; the splendid qualities of Hilda made
him proud. It was her mysteriousness that agitated him, and her absence
rendered him unhappy in his triumph. During the whole of Friday he was
thinking: "To-morrow is Saturday and I shall have her address and a
letter from her." He decided that there was no hope of a letter by the
last post on Friday, but as the hour of the last post drew nigh he grew
excited, and was quite appreciably disappointed when it brought nothing.
The fear, which had always existed in little, then waxed into enormous
dread, that Saturday's post also would bring nothing. His manoeuvres in
the early twilight of Saturday morning were complicated by the fact that
it had not been arranged whether she should write to the shop or to the
house. However, he prepared for either event by having his breakfast at
seven o'clock, on the plea of special work in the shop. He had finished
it at half-past seven, and was waiting for the postman, whose route he
commanded from the dining-room window. The postman arrived. Edwin with
false calm walked into the hall, saying to himself that if the letter
was not in the box it would be at the shop. But the letter was in the
box. He recognised her sprawling hand on the envelope through the
wirework. He snatched the letter and slipped upstairs with it like a
fox with a chicken. It had come, then! The letter safely in his hands
he admitted more frankly that he had been very doubtful of its
promptitude.

"59 Preston Street, Brighton, 1 a.m.

"Dearest,--This is my address. I love you. Every bit of me is
absolutely yours. Write me.--H.L."

That was all. It was enough. Its tone enchanted him. Also it startled
him. But it reminded him of her lips. He had begun a letter to her.
He saw now that what he had written was too cold in the expression of
his feelings. Hilda's note suddenly and completely altered his views
upon the composition of love-letters. "Every bit of me is absolutely
yours." How fine, how untrammelled, how like Hilda! What other girl
could or would have written such a phrase? More than ever was h