etter, but on the
blotting paper beside it, and Nelly hastily lifted her handkerchief to
dry a pair of swimming eyes.

'But he can't see--he won't know!' she thought, apologising to herself;
yet wrestling at the same time with the sharp temptation to tell him
exactly how she had suffered, that he might comfort her. But she
repelled it. Her moral sense told her that she ought to be sustaining
and strengthening him--rather than be hanging upon him the burden of her
own fears and agonies.

She went on bravely--

'Of course, after the news in the paper this morning,--and yesterday--I
was worried till I heard. I knew--at any rate I guessed--you must have
been in it all. And now you are safe, my own own!--for three whole
blessed weeks. Oh, how well I shall sleep all that time--and how much
work I shall do! But it won't be all war-work. Sir William Farrell came
over to-day, and showed me how to begin a drawing of the lake. I shall
finish it for your birthday, darling. Of course you won't want to be
bothered with it out there. I shall keep it till you come. The lake is
so beautiful to-night, George. It is warmer again, and the stars are all
out. The mountains are so blue and quiet--the water so still. But for
the owls, everything seems asleep. But they call and call--and the echo
goes round the lake. I can just see the island, and the rocks round
which the boat drifted--that last night. How good you were to me--how I
loved to sit and look at you, with the light on your dear face--and the
oars hanging--and the shining water--

'And then I think of where you are--and what you have been seeing in
that awful fighting. But not for long. I try to put it away.

'George, darling!--you know what you said when you went away--what you
hoped might come--to make us both happy--and take my thoughts off the
war? But, dear, it isn't so--you mustn't hope it. I shall be dreadfully
sorry if you are disappointed. But you'll only find _me_--your own
Nelly--not changed a bit--when you come back.

'I want to hear everything when you write--how your men did--whether you
took any prisoners, whether there was ammunition enough, or whether you
were short again? I feel every day that I ought to go and make
munitions--but somehow--I can't. We are going to Carton on Saturday.
Bridget is extremely pleased. I rather dread it. But I shall be able to
write you a long letter about it on Sunday morning, instead of going to
church. There is Rydal chapel str