tles.

"It is a note from Miss Anice," he said, coming to the hearth and
applying his pen-knife in a gentle way to the small square envelope.

"Not a letter, Grace?" said Derrick with a smile.

"A letter! Oh dear, no! She has never written me a letter. They are
always notes with some sort of business object. She has very decided
views on the subject of miscellaneous letter-writing."

He read the note himself and then handed it to Derrick.

It was a compact, decided hand, free from the suspicion of an
unnecessary curve.

"Dear Mr. Grace,--

"Many thanks for the book. You are very kind indeed. Pray
let us hear something more about your people. I am afraid
papa must find them very discouraging, but I cannot help
feeling interested. Grandmamma wishes to be remembered to
you,

"With more thanks,

"Believe me your friend,

"Anice Barholm."

Derrick refolded the note and handed it back to his friend. To tell
the truth, it did not impress him very favorably. A girl not yet twenty
years old, who could write such a note as this to a man who loved her,
must be rather _too_ self-contained and well balanced.

"You have never told me much of this story, Grace," he said.

"There is not much to tell," answered the curate, flushing again. "She
is the Rector's daughter. I have known her three years. You remember I
wrote to you about meeting her while you were in India. As for the rest,
I do not exactly understand myself how it is that I have gone so far,
having so--so little encouragement--in fact having had no encouragement
at all; but, however that is, it has grown upon me, Derrick,--my feeling
for her has grown into my life. She has never cared for me. I am quite
sure of that, you see. Indeed, I could hardly expect it. It is not her
way to care for men as they are likely to care for her, though it will
come some day, I suppose--with the coming man," half smiling. "She is
simply what she signs herself here, my friend Anice Barholm, and I am
thankful for that much. She would not write even that if she did not
mean it."

"Bless my soul," broke in Derrick, tossing back his head impatiently;
"and she is only nineteen yet, you say?"

"Only nineteen," said the curate, with simple trustfulness in his
friend's sympathy, "but different, you know, from any other woman I have
ever seen."

The tea and toast came in then, and they sat down together to partake of
it Derrick knew Anic