case, for the girl's present
frame of mind was far too exalted, too ecstatic, to admit of anything
so sobering as dread; but she could not help knowing that Marion would
entirely fail to understand her actions or the motives which prompted
them, and would be mystified and unhappy about her.

She had not the happy faculty which some people have of putting their
thoughts on paper, lucidly and clearly, and the letter had not been an
easy one to write. She had honestly tried to be frank, but when it
came to writing of her love, words seemed so bald, so inadequate, that
after several efforts she had given it up in despair, and merely stated
simple facts. And yet she would have liked Marion to know all. It
would have added to her happiness to have known that her friend
sympathised and shared in it.

She never for a moment considered the possibility of an answer in
person, and she was, in consequence, taken entirely by surprise when,
on the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Heathcote walked into the hall
where she was sitting.

Philippa sprang to her feet. "Oh," she cried, "I never thought you
would be able to come. How delightful!"

Marion returned her kiss warmly. "I felt I must see you," she said
affectionately, "and I was able to leave Dickie for a little while."

"How is he?"

"Getting gradually stronger."

"Is your husband here?"

"No, he stopped with the boy; we could not both come away. I can only
stay a short time. Will you come into the morning-room and let us have
a talk there, where we shall be undisturbed?"

"You got my letter?" asked Philippa.

"Yes, that is why I came," answered Marion gravely. "Will you tell me
all about it, dear?"

For answer Philippa flung her arms about her and held her close. There
was something so comforting, so dear about Marion, that at the sight of
her a flood of recollection flashed through the girl's mind of
unnumbered kindnesses and loving counsel in the old days, a thousand
links in the chain which bound them in friendship, and yet--now--how
was she to make her understand?

Marion, with all the genius for loving-kindness which she undoubtedly
possessed, held certain rigid and unwavering opinions. They were a
part of her; without them she would not have been Marion--the Marion
Philippa loved--and it was just her perfectly sane, normal outlook on
life which made the stumbling-block, for it was not easy to her to take
another person's point of view, or look, as