Just there he looked over his shoulder, a last look it might be, the handsome strange creature that had made so many of her hours pass so pleasantly; he that was so saucy with everyone else, and so gentle with her; of whom, she believed, she might make anything, a hero or a demigod! She knew a look would call him back--back, maybe, to her feet; but she could not give that little sign.

There she stood, affecting to read that letter, one word of which she did not see.

'She does not care; but--but there's no one like her.

No--she does not care,' he thought; and she let him think it: but her heart swelled to her throat, and she felt as if she could have screamed, 'Come back--my only love--my darling--without you I must die!' But she did not raise her head.

She only read on, steadily, old Miss Wardle's letter--over and over--the same half-dozen lines.