illow, and she lay motionless as a marble
figure on a tomb until a sound of knocking forced itself into her dreams.

She waked with a start. The curtains were drawn across the window, but
she could see that it was daylight. A streak of sunshine thrust a golden
wedge between the draperies, and seemed a good omen: for the sun had
hidden from London through many wintry weeks.

The knocking was real, not part of a dream. It was at her door, and
jumping out of bed she could hardly believe a clock on the mantelpiece
which said half-past ten.

"Who is it?" she asked, timidly, fearing that the Countess de Santiago's
voice might answer; but a man replied: "A note from a gentleman
downstairs, please, and he's waiting an answer."

Annesley opened the door a crack, and took in a letter. The new master of
her destiny had written:

Hurrah, my darling, our affairs march! I have been arranging about the
licence, _et cetera_, and I believe that you and I can join forces for
the rest of our lives to-morrow--blessed day!

How soon can you come down and talk over plans? I've a hundred to
propose. Will you breakfast with me, or have you finished?

Yours since last night, till eternal night,

N. S.

The girl scribbled an answer, confessing that she had overslept, but
promising to be down in half an hour for breakfast. She did not stop to
think of anything but the need for a quick reply; yet when the note was
sent, and she was "doing" her hair after a splash in the porcelain bath
(what luxury for the girl who had been practically a servant!), she
re-read her love-letter, spread on the dressing-table.

She liked her lover's handwriting. It seemed to express character--just
such character as she imagined her knight's to be. There were dash and
determination, and an originality which would never let itself be bound
by convention.

Perhaps if she had been critical--if the handwriting had been that of a
stranger--she might have thought it too bold. Long ago, when she was a
very young girl, she had superficially studied the "science" of
chirography from articles in a magazine, and had fancied herself a judge.
She remembered disliking Mrs. Ellsworth's writing the first time she saw
it, foreseeing the selfishness which afterward enslaved her. Since then
she had had little time to practise, until the day when she heard from
"Mr. N. Smith" after her answer to his advertisement in the _Morning
Post_.

One reason for feeling