did rise in her, only because Diana seemed so happy. She reasoned with
herself immediately that Evan's absence could never have such an
effect, if her fears were true; and that the happiness must therefore
be referred to some purely innocent cause. Nevertheless, Mrs. Starling
watched. For she was pretty sure that the young soldier had pushed his
advances while he had been in Pleasant Valley; and he might push them
still, though there no longer. She would guard what could be guarded.
She watched both Diana and other people, and kept an especial eye upon
all that came from the post office.

Evan had gone to a distant frontier post; the journey would take some
time; and it would be several days more still, in the natural course of
things, before Diana could have a letter. Diana reasoned out all that,
and was not anxious. For the present, the pleasure of expecting was
enough. A letter from _him;_ it was a fairylandish, weird, wonderful
pleasure, to come to her. She took to studying the newspaper, and,
covertly, the map. From the map she gained a little knowledge; but the
columns of the paper were barren of all allusion to the matter which
was her world, and Evan's. Newspapers are very partial sometimes. She
was afraid to let her mother see how eagerly she scanned them. The map
and Diana had secret and more satisfactory consultations. Measuring the
probable route of Evan's journey by the scale of miles; calculating the
rate of progress by different modes of travel; counting the nights, and
places where he might spend them; she reckoned up over and over again
the days that were probably necessary to enable him to reach his post.
Then she allowed margins for what she did not know, and accounted for
the blanks she could not fill up; and reasoned with herself about the
engrossments which might on his first arrival hinder Evan from
writing--for a few hours, or a night. So at last she had constructed a
scheme by which she proved to herself the earliest day at which it
would do to look for a letter, and the latest to which a letter might
reasonably be delayed. Women do such things. How many men are worthy of
it?

That farthest limit was reached, and no letter yet.

About that time, one morning the family at Elmfield were gathered at
breakfast. It was not exactly like any other breakfast table in
Pleasant Valley, for a certain drift from the great waves of the world
had reached it; whereas the others were clean from any such conta