obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return.

This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by
imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He
dwelt upon the strength of his love--of his desire for her happiness.
Would she ever understand what she was to him--what his love meant? and
so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa
turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it
was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from
the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart,
such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand.

By comparing the dates she found it. It was a hurried scrawl, and read
as follows--

"DEAREST FRANCIS,

"I have just had your letter. I never knew such an old boy as you are
to worry your head about nothing. Of course I love you. Why do you
want me to go on repeating it? But I can't stand heroics, or see any
sense in them. I am having a jolly time here. We went to the
Milchester races yesterday, and had a very good day. Forest has got a
young chestnut that jumps like a stag, I wish you had been there to see
it. It would make a first-class hunter, after you'd handled it a bit,
and I could do with another if we are going to be at Bessacre next
season.

"I shall see you on Friday. Post just going.

"Best love.

"PHIL."

Philippa wondered whether the heart of the man had taken comfort from
the phrase, "I wish you had been there to see." It was rather like
giving a crumb to one who demanded bread; but after all, she told
herself, she had not known the writer, and many people have no aptitude
for expressing their feelings on paper; and although the woman's
letters were not particularly affectionate and showed a want of deep
feeling, still, there was a certain insouciance, a gaiety about them
which was far from unpleasing. It was only that as love-letters they
were hardly satisfactory.

It also struck Philippa, as she thought them carefully over, that if
her aunt had not felt for Francis the true love of a lover, that high
essential essence which turns all to pure gold, she might easily have
missed the appeal in them--might even have been frankly bored by them.
To one whose heart could not respond to their very evident sincerity
they might easily have appeared 'high-falutin'. She herself did not
find them so, far from it--she foun