interest, that I
read it again and again; valuing it more than all her previous budgets
of parish gossip put together, entertaining as I thought them before?

Once, twice, three times?

No, I do not believe you can guess what it was that gave me such delight
in the "good news from home," sharp and shrewd though you may think
yourself.

If you will take my advice, you had better treat it as a conundrum and
"give it up."

Don't keep you in suspense, eh?

Well then, I will tell you--here goes.

It is a long story--too long to describe in detail; but the upshot of it
was that my kind friend the vicar, cognisant of the sincere affection
that existed between my darling and myself, and knowing the suffering
that had been caused to us both by the enforced silence which we had to
maintain towards each other, had interceded with Mrs Clyde on our
behalf; and, what is more, had done so successfully!

There, fancy that! Don't you think I had sufficient reason to be
rejoiced?

Min and I were to be allowed to write to each other for a year--as
"friends," a condition of intimacy to which her mother seemed to attach
a good deal of point, as she had made it an obligatory proviso to our
correspondence. Mrs Clyde had, in addition to this, tacked on a
sweeping clause to the agreement, to the effect that, in case my
prospects at the end of the year should not warrant my returning to
England and claiming Min as my promised wife--prospects of a short
engagement and an easy settlement being also satisfactory--the whole
negotiation should fall to the ground and be considered null and void;
we, reverting to our original and hopeless position of soi-disant
strangers or "friends" at a distance, and looking upon the interlude of
our letter-writing as if it had never occurred.

I did not give much thought, however, to this ultimatum.

I was too full of happiness at the idea of being allowed to correspond
at once with my darling, and hear from her own dear self after the weary
months that had passed since our separation. Why, I would be able to
tell her all my plans and hopes and fears, conscious that her sympathy
would never fail to congratulate me in success; condole with me, cheer
me, encourage me, in failure!

And then, her letters! What a feast they would be, coming like grateful
dew on the thirsty soil of my heart--sunshine succeeding to the April
shower of disappointment that lay on my memory. Her letters! They
would be so