verything?
What happened next? Have you not heard or seen him since that time?"

The red flew over Bridgie's face, and she smiled--a soft, contented
smile.

"I have never seen him--no! Only a month after that he was ordered to
India, and sailed almost at once, but he wrote to me before he left. A
letter arrived one day in a strange handwriting, but I guessed almost at
once that it was from him. He said he had intended to come to Ireland
in the spring, and to call at Knock Castle, but that now it would be
impossible for some years to come. He said he had enjoyed so much
meeting me for those few days, and he hoped I should not altogether
forget him while he was away. Would I allow him to write to me now and
again, and would I send a photograph for a poor exile to take away to
comfort his loneliness? I had a very nice photograph that a friend of
father had taken the summer before, and I thought there was no harm in
sending him that, and writing a polite little note. It was very short,
and I tried not to make it too nice, and I said nothing at all about
writing, only just remarked that it would be interesting to receive
letters from India," said Bridgie, with a naivete which made
Mademoiselle throw up her hands in delight. "He has written to me four
times since then, and,"--her eyes began to dance, and a dimple danced
mischievously in her cheek--"I enjoy writing to him so much that I
answer them the very next day; but it would not be proper to send them
so soon, you know, so I put no date, but just lock them away in my desk,
and wait for six weeks, or two months before I send them off. Once I
waited for three, and then he sent a newspaper. There was nothing in it
that could interest me in the least, but it was just a gentle hurry up.
I did laugh over that newspaper!"

"Bridgie, Bridgie! this is more serious than I thought. No wonder you
look upon new-comers with indifference. I hope they are very
interesting, those letters. They must be, I suppose, since you are so
eager to reply." But at this Bridgie shook her head, and shrugged her
shoulders deprecatingly.

"You are a teacher; perhaps you would call them interesting. For me
they are just a trifle instructive! I want to hear about himself, and
he describes the country, and the expeditions they make. Don't please
think they are love-letters, Therese. They are very, very proper, not
in the least affectionate, and my replies are terribly dull. You see