t _may_ be,' I said. 'But you do not suppose
that she could follow you on my report of your words alone?'

"'I shall be too far off to speak them myself.'

"'You can write then,' I said.

"'Do you remember what the distances are, and the intervals of time
that must pass between letter and letter? When should I write?'

"'Now--this evening. I am not thinking of such courtship as took place
in the antediluvian days.'

"'I cannot write on such an utter uncertainty. I have not hope enough;
although I cannot bear to leave the country without enlisting you to
act for me.'

"'I shall reconsider the question of acting,' I said, 'if I have no
credentials to produce. I cannot undertake to tell anything to Eleanor
merely to give her pleasure--or merely to give her pain.'

"'Would you have me write to her here--now?' he asked.

"'Yes, I would,' I told him.

"He sat pondering the matter a little while, making up the fire as you
did this morning--only with a very different face; and then with a half
laugh he said I was making a fool of him, and he went off. I sat
still--and in a few minutes he came down and handed me that note for
you."

Eleanor's cheeks would have rivalled the scarlet Lobelia or Indian
Mallow, or anything else that is brilliant. She kept profound silence.
It was plain enough what Mr. Rhys expected her to do--that is,
supposing he had any expectations. Now her question was, what would her
mother say? And Eleanor in her secret heart looked at the probability
of obstinate opposition in that quarter; and then of long, long waiting
and delay; perhaps never to be ended but with the time and the power of
doing what now her heart longed to do. The more she thought of it, the
less she could imagine that her mother would yield her consent; or that
her opposition would be anything but determined and unqualified. Then
what could she do? Eleanor sighed.

"No," said Mrs. Caxton. "Have patience, my dear, and believe that all
will go right--_however it goes_, Eleanor. We will do our part; but we
must be content with our part. There is another part, which is the
Lord's; let him do that, and let us say it is well, Eleanor. Till we
have learnt that, we have not learnt our lesson."

"I do say it, and will, aunt Caxton," said the girl. But she said
nothing more that night.

To tell the truth, they were rather silent days that followed. Mrs.
Powle's letters of answer did not come speedily; indeed no one knew at
Plassy ju