And yet, how
could one consider these trivial, facile French phrases private? Nothing
more trite and vulgar in the world than such a love-letter--no newspaper
more obvious.

Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgian
damsel. But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on, "Notre
cher petit bebe--our dear little baby was born a week ago. Almost I
died, knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the fruit of our
perfect love. But the child comforted me. He has the smiling eyes and
virile air of his English father. I pray to the Mother of Jesus to send
me the dear father of my child, that I may see him with my child in his
arms, and that we may be united in holy family love. Ah, my Alfred, can
I tell you how I miss you, how I weep for you? My thoughts are with you
always, I think of nothing but you, I live for nothing but you and our
dear baby. If you do not come back to me soon, I shall die, and our
child will die. But no, you cannot come back to me. But I can come to
you. I can come to England with our child. If you do not wish to present
me to your good mother and father you can meet me in some town, some
city, for I shall be so frightened to be alone in England with my child,
and no one to take care of us. Yet I must come to you, I must bring my
child, my little Alfred, to his father, the big, beautiful Alfred that
I love so much. Oh, write and tell me where I shall come. I have some
money. I am not a penniless creature. I have money for myself and my
dear baby----"

I read to the end. It was signed: "Your very happy and still more
unhappy Elise." I suppose I must have been smiling.

"I can see it makes you laugh," said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked
up at her.

"It's a love-letter, I know that," she said. "There's too many 'Alfreds'
in it."

"One too many," I said.

"Oh yes.--And what does she say--Eliza? We know her name's Eliza, that's
another thing." She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking
laugh.

"Where did you get this letter?" I said.

"Postman gave it me last week."

"And is your husband at home?"

"I expect him home to-night. He had an accident and hurt his leg. He's
been abroad most of his time for this last four years. He's chauffeur to
a gentleman who travels about in one country and another, on some sort
of business. Married? We married? Why, six years. And I tell you I've
seen little enough of him for four of them. But he always was