ur you with a proposal?'

'Indeed, no!'

'Some one told me it was imminent, not long ago.'

'Quite a mistake,' Sidwell answered, with her grave smile. 'Mr Chilvers
had a singular manner with women in general. It was meant, perhaps, for
subtle flattery; he may have thought it the most suitable return for
the female worship he was accustomed to receive.'

Mr. Warricombe was coming towards them. He brought a new subject of
conversation, and as they talked the trio drew near to the gate which
led into the road. The afternoon postman was just entering; Mr
Warricombe took from him two letters.

'One for you, Sylvia, and--one for you, Sidwell.'

A slight change in his voice caused Sidwell to look at her father as he
handed her the letter. In the same moment she recognised the writing of
the address. It was Godwin Peak's, and undoubtedly her father knew it.

With a momentary hesitation Mr. Warricombe continued his talk from the
point at which he had broken off, but he avoided his daughter's look,
and Sidwell was too well aware of an uneasiness which had fallen upon
him. In a few minutes he brought the chat to an end, and walked away
towards the house.

Sidwell held her letter tightly. Conversation was no longer possible
for her; she had a painful throbbing of the heart, and felt that her
face must be playing traitor. Fortunately, Sylvia found it necessary to
write a reply to the missive she had received, and her companion was
soon at liberty to seek solitude.

For more than an hour she remained alone. However unemotional the
contents of the letter, its arrival would have perturbed her seriously,
as in the two previous instances; what she found on opening the
envelope threw her into so extreme an agitation that it was long before
she could subdue the anguish of disorder in all her senses. She had
tried to believe that Godwin Peak was henceforth powerless to affect
her in this way, write what he would. The romance of her life was over;
time had brought the solution of difficulties to which she looked
forward; she recognised the inevitable, as doubtless did Godwin also.
But all this was self-deception. The passionate letter delighted as
much as it tortured her; in secret her heart had desired this, though
reason suppressed and denied the hope. No longer need she remember with
pangs of shame the last letter she had written, and the cold response;
once again things were as they should be--the lover pleading before
her--sh