aven't appreciated you sufficiently, Sally," she said in a
toneless voice. "You're not the sort that gets appreciation. But,
my God! I think you're wonderful. Do I keep saying 'God' too much,
d'you think?"

CHAPTER V

That night Sally sat in her old rooms once more and wrote a letter
to Traill. The return to them had for one moment surged back in a
rushing flood of memories; but it did not overwhelm her. She threw
herself into no quagmire of despair. Her eyes were tearless. All her
actions were such as those of a person dazed with sleep. One hope
she had in her heart which animated her, just as the hope of ultimate
rest will give sluggish life to the person whose eyes are heavy with
fatigue.

Towards the realization of that hope, she seated herself at her desk
and wrote to Traill.

"DEAR JACK,

"Will you come and see me to-morrow afternoon at about half-past
four? I will give you some tea. I want to speak to you. Please do
not think that I am going to begin to pester you with unwelcome
attentions. My silence over these two or three months should convince
you that I would not worry you like that for anything.

"Hoping that I shall see you,
"Yours sincerely,
"SALLY BISHOP."

When she had posted it, she went to bed and slept fitfully till
morning. There was no letter waiting her from Traill, but an envelope
addressed with a scrawled, uneven writing lay in the box. She tore
it eagerly open, her heart beating exultantly.

"DEAR SALLY," it read,

"Mummy has gone out I am to write to you I am to say good bi
proply I am very fond of you but I doant luv you Mummy ses you
have been very kind I wode luv you very much if you was my mummy
but mummy ses she is she is I am afrade this is not spellt rite
but I have got a very bad pen.

"Yours affagintly,
"MAURIE."

If the tears could have come then; but she laid the letter down on
the table, and her eyes were aching and dry. The quaintness of the
spelling, the almost complete absence of punctuation. That queer
little repetition, of words--"she is she is"--none of these things
moved her, even to smile. Maurie had said good-bye properly. That,
and that he was only just fond of her, was all that reached her
understanding. Had the letter been from a lover, dashing all her
hopes into fragments, she could not have read it more seriously. But
one prospect was left he