I
did cry. And then, all of a sudden, I knew that I loved him._

_We met properly a week or two later by accident--on his part. You
must forgive me. If you knew him, you would. And now we know one
another properly, and he's in service quite close to Bell Hammer, with
George and Betty Alison--didn't you meet them at Christmas? Lost all
their money, and went out as chauffeur and parlourmaid. Anne, George's
sister, is there, too. And he came to dinner the other night, and Aunt
Harriet likes him, and we're--well, great friends._

_And I don't know what to do. You see, he's terribly proud and
honourable, and, to him, being a footman matters very much indeed. Of
course it doesn't really matter in the least, but he would never look
at it that way. And all my money, instead of making everything
possible, as it might, only makes things worse._

_What is to be done?_

_I can't blame him. Indeed, I'd hate him to feel any other way, and
yet.... If only the positions were reversed. Then it would be too
easy. As things are, it's a deadlock. And I love him so, Uncle John.
I suppose you couldn't possibly come. I have a feeling that you would
straighten things out._

_Your loving niece,
VALERIE._

_P.S.--I'm so terribly afraid he'll disappear or something. He's like
that._

Monseigneur Forest read the letter with a grave smile. Then he read it
again very carefully, looking to see if there was anything unwritten
between the lines. Only once did he raise his eyes from the
note-paper. This he did meditatively. Before returning to the letter,
he went farther and raised his eyebrows....

The cause of this elevation is worthy of note. It was, in fact, none
other than the reference to Anne--and yet not so much the reference
itself as the manner in which this was made. The prelate, you will
remember, was no fool.

For that matter, he was not a god, either. Consequently, the counsel
which he presently offered his niece had to be communicated by the
material channel of the "common or garden" post, and was, in fact,
nearing Modane when Valerie rounded the edge of a belt of Scotch firs
in Hampshire to come upon Anthony Lyveden regarding an old finger-post
in some perplexity.

As my lady came up, Lyveden uncovered and pointed to a weather-beaten
arm, upon which the words FRANCE 4 MILES were still discernible.

"Can you help me?" he said.

Valerie smiled.

"I think so. This is a very old post--over