bring
her the morning post, and was following at her heels, till the girl
coughed.

There were four letters. She opened them with avidity, for they were
certificates that there were other things in life as well as Richard
with which she could occupy herself. Two were bills, the first from her
dressmakers and the other from the dealer who had sold her some coloured
glass a few weeks before; and there was a dividend warrant for her to
sign and send to her bankers. Sweeping about the lawn as on a stage, she
resolved to buy clothes that would make her look like other untormented
women, and more hangings and pictures and vases to make her house look
gay. Then she observed that the fourth envelope was addressed in the
handwriting of the son whom she could not love.

She looked towards the house and saw the son whom she loved, but he did
not see her. Ellen's red head was close to his shoulder.

It was horrible handwriting outside and inside the envelope: a weak
running of ink that sagged downwards in the second half of every line
and added feeble flourishes to every capital that gave the whole an air
of insincerity. It had the disgusting appearance of a begging letter,
and indeed that was what it was. It begged for love, for condonation of
the writer's loathsomeness. She held it far off as she read:

"DEAR MOTHER,

"You will be wondering why I had not written to you. You will know soon
that something you would not have expected has happened to me. I am not
sure how you will take it. But I will be with you in two days, and then
you will see for yourself. I hope you will not harden your heart against
me, dear mother.

"Your loving son,

"ROGER."

There was no address, but the postmark was Chelmsford. No doubt he had
written in the cells. For the letter could have no other meaning but
that the disgrace she had foreseen had at last arrived.

She could not bear to be out there alone on that wide lawn, in the
bright light, in the intense cold. She ran to the window, and not daring
to look in lest they should be very close together, she called,
"Richard, Roger is coming."

There was a noise of a chair being pushed back, and Richard stood over
her, asking: "When? Has he written?"

She held out the letter.

There was the rustling of paper crushed in the hand, and she looked up
into his burning and compassionate eyes. Her head dropped back on her
throat; she grew weak with happiness. He was her own once more, if she
wou