rtly
from the influence of congenial companionship, the carping
discontent that had so possessed her of late had begun to give way
to a softer and infinitely more gracious frame of mind. The bond
of their womanhood drew the two together, and the intimacy between
them nourished in that desert place though probably in no other
ground would it have taken root.

Work was as an anaesthetic to Sylvia in those days. She was
thankful to occupy her mind and at night to sleep from sheer
weariness. The sense of being useful to someone helped her also.
She gave herself up to work as a respite from the torment of
thought, resolutely refusing to look forward, striving so to become
absorbed in the daily task as to crowd out even memory. She and
Merston were fast friends also, and his wholesome masculine
selfishness did her good. He was like a pleasant, rather spoilt
child, unconventionally affectionate, and by no means difficult to
manage. They called each other by their Christian names before she
had been twenty-four hours at the farm, and chaffed each other with
cheery inconsequence whenever they met. Sylvia sometimes marvelled
at herself for that surface lightheartedness, but somehow it seemed
to be in the atmosphere. Bill Merston's hearty laugh was
irresistible to all but his wife.

It was but a brief respite. She knew it could not last, but its
very transience made her the more ready 10 take advantage of it.
And she was thankful for every day that carried her farther from
that terrible time at Brennerstadt. It had begun to seem more like
an evil dream to her now--a nightmare happening that never could
have taken place in ordinary, normal existence.

Burke did not come over to see them again, nor did he write.
Evidently he was too busy to do either. But one evening Merston
announced his intention of riding over to Blue Hill Farm, and asked
Sylvia if she would like to send a note by him.

"You've got ten minutes to do it in," he gaily told her. "So you'd
better leave all the fond adjectives till the end and put them in
if you have time."

She thanked him carelessly enough for his advice, but when she
reached her own room she found herself confronted with a problem
that baffled her. How was she to write to Burke? What could she
say to him? She felt strangely confounded and unsure of herself.

Eight of the allotted ten minutes had flown before she set pencil
to paper. Then, hurriedly, with trembling fingers,