letters she held in her hand.
Looked at the handwriting too, with curious scrutiny, before she
ventured to open and read either paper. Wondered too, with an odd side
thought, why her fingers should tremble so in handling these, when no
letter of Mr. Carlisle's writing had ever reminded her that her fingers
had nerves belonging to them. One was a little letter, which Mrs.
Caxton had told her was the first to be read; it was addressed, "In the
hand of Mrs. Caxton, for Miss Eleanor Powle." That note Eleanor's
little fingers opened with as slight tearing of the paper as might be.
It was in few words indeed.

"Although I know that these lines will never meet the eye of her for
whom they are written, unless she be favourably inclined both to them
and to me; yet in the extreme doubt which possesses me whether that
condition will be ever fulfilled, and consequently whether I am not
writing what no one will ever read, I find it very difficult to say
anything. Something charges me with foolhardiness, and something with
presumption; but there is a something else, which is stronger, that
overthrows the charges and bids me go on.

"If you ever see these lines, dear Eleanor, you will know already what
they have to tell you; but it is fit you should have it in my own
words; that--not the first place in my heart--but the second--is yours;
and yours without any rivalry. There is one thing dearer to me than
you--it is my King and his service; after that, you have all the rest.

"What is it worth to you? anything? and what will you say to me in
reply?

"When you read this I shall be at a distance--before I can read your
answer I shall be at the other side of the globe. I am not writing to
gratify a vague sentiment, but with a definite purpose--and even,
though it mocks me, a definite hope. It is much to ask--I hardly dare
put it in words--it is hardly possible--that you should come to me. But
if you are ready to do and venture anything in the service of
Christ--and if you are willing to share a life that is wholly given to
God to be spent where and how he pleases, and that is to take up its
portion for the present, and probably for long, in the depths of South
Sea barbarism--let your own heart tell you what welcome you will
receive.

"I can say no more. May my Lord bless and keep you. May you know the
fulness of joy that Jesus can give his beloved. May you want nothing
that is good for you.

"R. Rhys."

The other letter was