almost say, glad--to go.'"

"Have you read her letter, Teresa? Am I wrong in feeling that this poor
wounded heart has surely some claim on me? If I _am_ wrong, oh, what am
I to do? what am I to do?"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The last lines addressed by Carmina to her old nurse were completed on
the seventeenth of August, and were posted that night.

The day that followed was memorable to Carmina, and memorable to Mrs.
Gallilee. Doctor Benjulia had his reasons also for remembering the
eighteenth of August.

Still in search of a means to undermine the confidence which united Ovid
and Carmina, and still calling on her invention in vain, Mrs. Gallilee
had passed a sleepless night. Her maid, entering the room at the usual
hour, was ordered to leave her in bed, and not to return until the bell
rang. On ordinary occasions, Mrs. Gallilee was up in time to receive the
letters arriving by the first delivery; the correspondence of the other
members of the household being sorted by her own hands, before it was
distributed by the servant. On this particular morning (after sleeping
a little through sheer exhaustion), she entered the empty breakfast-room
two hours later than usual. The letters waiting for her were addressed
only to herself. She rang for the maid.

"Any other letters this morning?" she asked.

"Two, for my master."

"No more than that!"

"Nothing more, ma'am--except a telegram for Miss Carmina."

"When did it come?"

"Soon after the letters."

"Have you given it to her?"

"Being a telegram, ma'am, I thought I ought to take it to Miss Carmina
at once."

"Quite right. You can go."

A telegram for Carmina? Was there some private correspondence going on?
And were the interests involved too important to wait for the ordinary
means of communication by post? Considering these questions, Mrs.
Gallilee poured out a cup of tea and looked over her letters.

Only one of them especially attracted her notice in her present frame of
mind. The writer was Benjulia. He dispensed as usual with the customary
forms of address.

"I have had a letter about Ovid, from a friend of mine in Canada.
There is an allusion to him of the complimentary sort, which I don't
altogether understand. I want to ask you about it--but I can't spare the
time to go a-visiting. So much the better for me--I hate conversation,
and I like work. You have got your carriage--and your fine friends
are out of town. If you want a drive, come to me,