ps Celtic. Yes, that must be
it--Celtic. But the high-stomached Norman is there and the stubborn
Saxon. Her quickness and fine audacity are checked and poised, as it
were, by that certain conservatism which gives stability to purpose and
power to achievement. She is unafraid, and wide-looking and far-looking,
but she is not over-looking. The Saxon grapples with the Celt, and the
Norman forces the twain to do what the one would not dream of doing and
what the other would dream beyond and never do. Do you catch me? Her
most salient charm, is I think, her perfect poise, her exquisite
adjustment.

Altogether she is a most wonderful woman, take my word for it. And after
all she is described vicariously. Though she has published nothing and
is exceeding shy, I shall send you some of her work. There will you find
and know her. She is waiting for stronger voice and sings softly as yet.
But hers will be no minor note, no middle flight. She is--well, she is
Hester. In two years we shall be married. Two years, Dane. Surely you
will be with us.

One thing more; in your letter a certain undertone which I could not
fail to detect. A shade less of me than formerly?--I turn and look into
your face--Waring's handiwork you remember--his painter's fancy of you
in those golden days when I stood on the brink of the world, and you
showed me the delights of the world and the way of my feet therein. So I
turn and look, and look and wonder. _A shade less_ of me, of you? Poesy
and economics! Where lies the blame?

HERBERT.

III

FROM DANE KEMPTON TO HERBERT WACE

LONDON,
September 30, 19--.

It is because you know not what you do that I cannot forgive you. Could
you know that your letter with its catalogue of advantages and
arrangements must offend me as much as it belies (let us hope) you and
the woman of your love, I would pardon the affront of it upon us all,
and ascribe the unseemly want of warmth to reserve or to the sadness
which grips the heart when joy is too palpitant. But something warns me
that you are unaware of the chill your words breathe, and that is a
lapse which it is impossible to meet with indulgence.

"He does not love her," was Barbara's quick decision, and she laid the
open letter down with a definiteness which said that you, too, are laid
out and laid low. Your sister's very wrists can be articulate. However,
I laughed at her and she soon joined me. We do not mean to be
extravagant with our fears. Who s