fellow
whom you haven't seen for ten years! And pray what am I to do if you go
away and leave me?"

"Something must be managed," said Frances.

She rose again. Her eyes no longer glowed happily; her lips, so sweet
five minutes ago, had taken an almost bitter curve.

"We will talk this over quietly in the morning, dear father," she said.
"I will never neglect you, never cast you aside; but a joy like this can
not be put out of a life. That is, it can not be lightly put away. I
have always endeavored to do my duty--God will help me to do it still.
Now shall I ring for prayers?"

CHAPTER III.

AFTER TEN YEARS.

When Frances got to her room she took out pen and ink, and without a
moment's hesitation wrote an answer to her letter.

"MY DEAR PHILIP,--I have not forgotten you--I remember the
old times, and all the things to which you alluded in your
letter. I thought you were dead, and for the last three or
four years always remembered you as one who had quite done
with this world. Your letter startled me to-day, but your
hope about me has been abundantly fulfilled, for I have
never for a moment forgotten you. Philip, you have said very
good words to me in your letter, and whatever happens, and
however matters may be arranged between us in the future, I
shall always treasure the words, and bless you for
comforting my heart with them. But, Philip, ten years is a
long time--in ten years we none of us stay still, and in ten
years some of us grow older than others. I think I am one of
those who grow old fast, and nothing would induce me to
engage myself to you, or even to tell you that I care for
you, until after we have met again. When you reach
England--I will send this letter to the address you give me
in London--come down here. My dear and sweet mother is dead,
but I dare say my father will find you a room at the Firs,
and if not, there are good lodgings to be had at the White
Hart in the village. If you are of the same mind when you
reach England as you were when you wrote this letter, come
down to the old place, and let us renew our acquaintance.
If, after seeing me, you find I am not the Frances you had
in your heart all these years, you have only to go away
without speaking, and I shall understand. In any case, thank
you for the letter, and believe me, yours faithfully,