came
to me, in a rather curious manner.

A cousin of mine, having been badly wounded in the West African War, was
sent to a London hospital to have the bullet, which had puzzled all the
local surgeons, located and extracted.

He was at the hospital for several weeks during the London season of
1899, I think. During these weeks I, in common with many other friends
and relations, was in the habit of paying him occasional visits. I had
gone to say good-bye to him on leaving town, when "by chance" (as we
call it) he mentioned, for the _first_ time, the name of his ward
sister, adding how charming and kind and capable she had proved. "By the
way, she is a daughter of the Bishop of Granchester," he added. "You
know everybody, Cousin Emmie! perhaps you know _her_," he said, smiling.

"No; I don't know her, Bertie! but I knew her mother and father very
well many years ago."

Nothing would satisfy him but that I should ask to see her when I left
the hospital, and as he seemed really anxious on the point I promised to
do so, though inwardly averse from disturbing a busy woman.

I asked the hall porter for her, but said I had no special business, and
would not ask to see her unless she happened to be quite free. In a few
moments he returned, and showed me into a pretty sitting-room on the
ground floor, saying that the sister would be with me shortly. The door
opened again to admit a bright, pleasant-looking young woman of seven or
eight and twenty, who gave me a most cordial greeting when she heard my
name, saying: "Oh yes, Frank told me all about meeting you at Oxford."

I did not feel very keen about talking of "Frank" just then; but we sat
down, and had a long half hour's chat on much the same lines as my
conversation with her brother three years before.

I had said good-bye, and she had accompanied me across the hall to the
fine stone steps leading from the hospital--she had, in fact, turned
towards her own apartments--when I felt I _must_ ask her one more
question, so I also turned, and hurried back to her.

"Did your brother Frank ever tell you of a letter he received from me in
Oxford?" I asked.

"Oh yes," she answered, without a touch of embarrassment.

Then I continued: "I never heard from him about it. I told him he need
not write at the time, but I have been afraid he was hurt or annoyed,
and thought it an impertinence on my part perhaps."

"Did Frank never write?" she asked, with genuine astonishment. "I kn