he same light as you do. What I should
like to know is this: How much has Francis known of all that has passed
in the last twenty years? Has he any notion of time? Has he noticed
the alteration in people's appearance, I mean? Has he noticed that
they have grown older? People he has seen constantly like Robert Gale
and old Goodman. Does he know his mother is dead? Has he missed her?
Oh, there are half-a-hundred things one wants to know."

"We can only hope that he will never ask," returned Philippa gently.
"It will be much happier for him if he takes everything just as it is,
and doesn't puzzle over anything. The doctor tells me he is not fit to
talk very much--that he must be kept absolutely quiet. I am only to go
and sit with him, and not to talk more than I can help. Will you give
my best love to Marion, and do not let her worry about anything here?
She has so much to trouble her as it is. I do hope you will be able to
give me better news soon."

"Let me know if you want me, or if there is any change," he said as
they parted. "I will come at any time."

Philippa spent the afternoon in her own room with the dispatch-box by
her side, going systematically through the contents.

These consisted of two packets of letters, one very small, merely some
half-dozen in all, tied round with a faded piece of pink ribbon--Phil's
letters to Francis. The other a thick bundle held together by a piece
of red tape--his letters to her.

A small cardboard box containing a ring--a half-hoop of diamonds--a
glove, and a bunch of violets faded and dry almost beyond recognition,
yet faintly fragrant. A pitiful collection truly, telling plainly of a
love story of other days.

Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was
absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to
the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other--not
before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man
were closely written and long--outpourings of an affection which
carried all before it. The earlier ones--for Philippa placed them in
consecutive order--were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and
satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way
lessened, there was something of appeal--or so it seemed to her as she
studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make
the recipient understand the depth of love--to get below the surface,
to