Of late, it was not to be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without, she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green turf of the lawn.

Her meditations were presently interrupted by the arrival of a servant who handed her a letter.

The letter bore the London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice or his face.

This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a surprise to you.

You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it.