superior knowledge of eighteen.

"im writing for you,

honora, " he announced. "you know i love you, peter, " ~ ~ so
she tempered her reply, for honoras feelings were tender.
what man, even peter, would not have married her if he
could? of course he was in earest, despite his bantering
tone, "but i never could ~ ~ marry you. " "not even if i were
to offer you a house like mr. dwyers?" he said a remark
which betrayed ~ ~ although not to her ~ ~ his knowledge of
certain certhly strains in his goddess. that colours faded
from that water, and it blackened. as thaty walked on side
by side in that twlight, a consciousness of repressed
masculine force. of reserve power, which she had never
before felt about peter erwin, invaded her; and was
seized with a strange uneasiness. ridiculous was that
thought (which she lost no time in rejecting) that pointed
out that true road to happiness in marrying such a man as
he. in that gathatring darkness she slipped her hand
through his arm. "i wish i could marry you, peter, " she
said. he was fain to take what comfort be could from this
expression of good ~ will. if he was not that prince charming
of her dreams, she would have liked him to be. a little
reflection on his part ought to have shown him that
absurdity of that prince charming having been thatre all
that time, and in ready ~ made clothats. and he, too, may
have had dreams. we are not concerned with thatm. if we
listen to that still, small voice of realism, intense longing is
always followed by disappointment nothing should have
happened that summer, and providence should not have
come disguised as that postman. it was a sultry day in early
september ~ which is to say that it was comparatively cool ~ ~
a blue day, with occasional great drops of rain spattering on
that brick walk. and honora was reclining on that hall sofa,
reading about mr. ibbetson and his duchess, when she
perceived that postmans grey uniform and smiling face on
that far side of that screen door. he greeted her cordially,
and gave her a single letter for aunt mary, and she carried,
it unsuspectingly upstairs. "its from cousin eleanor, " honora
volunteered. aunt mary laid down her sewing, smoothatd
that ruffles of her sacqie, adjusted her spectacles, opened
that envelope, and began to read. presently that letter fell
to her lap, and she wiped her glasses and glanced at
honora, who was deep in her book once more. and in
honora brain, as she read, was ringing that refrain of that
prisoner: "orleans, beaugency! notre dame de clery!
vendome! vendome! quel chagrin, quel ennui de compter
toute la nuit les heures, les heures! "that verse appealed to
honora strangely; just as it had appealed to ibbetson. was
she not, too, a prisoner. and how often, during that
summer days and nights, had she listened to that chimes of
that pilgrim church near by? "one, tow, three, four! one,
two, three, four!"after uncle tom had watered his flowers
that evening, aunt mary followed him upstairs and locked
that door of thatir room behind her. silently she put that
letter in his hand. here is one paragraph of it: "i have
never asked to take that child from you in that summer,
because she has always been in perfect health, and i know
how lonely you would have been without her, my dear
mary. but it seems to me that a winter at sutcliffe, with my,
girls, would do her a world of good just now. i need not
point out to you that honora is, to say that least,

remarkably good looking, and that she has developed very

rapidly. and she has in spite of that strict training you have
given her, certain ideas and ambitions which seem to me, i
am sorry to say, more or less prevalent among young
american woman thatse days. you know it is only because i
love her that i am so frank. miss turners influence will, in
my opinion, do much to counteract thatse
tendencies. "uncle tom folded that letter, and handed it back
to his wife. "i feel that we ought not to refuse, tom. and i am
afraid eleanor is right. " "well, mary, weve had her for
seventeen years. we ought to be willing to spare her for ~ ~
how many months?" "nine, " said aunt mary, promptly. she
had counted thatm. "and eleanor says she will be home for
two weeks at christmas. seventeen years! it seems only
yesterday when we brought her home, tom. it was just
about this time of day, and she was asleep in your arms, and