think he did--and that he wasn't offended.

'I had something to tell you. I have forgotten it--never mind.'

And therewith the odd epistle was concluded. Sidwell perused the latter
part several times. Of course she was at no loss to interpret it.
Buckland's demeanour for the past two months had led her to surmise
that his latest visit to Budleigh Salterton had finally extinguished
the hopes which drew him in that direction. His recent censure of
Sylvia might be thus explained. She grieved that her brother's suit
should be discouraged, but could not persuade herself that Sylvia's
decision was final. The idea of a match between those two was very
pleasant to her. For Buckland she imagined it would be fraught with
good results, and for Sylvia, on the whole, it might be the best thing.

Before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed, and Christmas
was at hand. Again she had been much in society. Mr. Walsh had renewed
his unmistakable attentions, and, when her manner of meeting them began
to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the air by making a formal
offer of marriage. Sidwell's negative was absolute, much to her
mother's relief. On the day of that event, she wrote rather a long
letter to Sylvia, but Mr. Walsh's name was not mentioned in it.

'Mother tells me [it began] that _your_ mother has written to her from
Salisbury, and that you yourself are going there for a stay of some
weeks. I am sorry, for on the Monday after Christmas Day I shall be in
Exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you. We--mother and I--are going
to run down together, to see after certain domestic affairs; only for
three days at most.

'Your ant-letter was very amusing, but it saddened me, dear Sylvia. I
can't make any answer. On these subjects it is very difficult even for
the closest friends to open their minds to each other. I don't--and
don't wish to--believe in the _apteryx_ profession; that's all I must
say.

'My health has been indifferent since I last wrote. We live in all but
continuous darkness, and very seldom indeed breathe anything that can
be called air. No doubt this state of things has its effect on me. I
look forwards, not to the coming of spring, for here we shall see
nothing of its beauties, but to the month which will release us from
London. I want to smell the pines again, and to see the golden gorse in
_our_ road.

'By way of being more "positive", I have read much in the newspapers,
supplementing from them my