m the law chambers of Mr.
Stretton, where for years his uncle had kept a private safe.
Conscientiously he toiled at the monotonous task, until weeks, then
months, slipped by, hardly noticed, ignoring all social life. When his
mother or Laura broached the subject, he would say: "'Sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof,' and this must be done first."

He was not unmindful of his wife during this interval, but wrote
frequently, and, to guard against any danger of her being left without
resources should something unforeseen befall him, he placed in Bishop
Towers's hands the residue of money remaining to him in Canada, for
Cassandra. He wrote her to use it as occasion required, and not to spare
it, that it was hers without restriction. He sent her the names of books
he wished she would read--that she should write the publishers for them.
He begged her to do no more weaving for money--but only for her own
amusement, and above all to trust and be happy, not to be sorrowful for
this long delay, which he would cut as short as he could.

Much of his occupation he could not explain to her, and ofttimes it was
hard to find matter for his letters; then he would revert to
reminiscence. These were the letters she loved best and sometimes wept
over, and these were the letters that often left him dreamy and sad, and
sometimes made him distraught when his mother and Laura talked over
their affairs, so utterly alien to his thoughts and longings.

Cassandra's replies were for the most part short, but they were sent
with unfailing regularity, and always they seemed to bring with them a
breath from her own mountain top--naive--tender--absolutely
trusting--often quaintly worded, and telling of the simple, innocent
things of her life. He could see that she held herself in reserve, even
as her nature was; a psychologic something was held back. He could not
dream what it might be, but reasoned with himself that it was only that
she found it harder to unveil her thoughts by means of the pen than in
speech.

One day, as he rode alone in the park, he noticed that the leaf buds
were swelling. What! Was spring upon them? A white fog was lifting, and
every twig and stem held its tiny pearl of wetness. All the earth
glistened and was clean and looked as if greenness was returning. He
regarded the artificial effects around him, the long lines of trees and
set clumps of shrubbery, and was seized with a desire well-nigh
irresistible for the wild