She dwelt earnestly on the thought of Felix, weighing his probable future. Lettice did not love Felix less because she loved Dr. Bryant. The more one loves, the more one has power to love. He was very near her heart, even though she received scant show of love from him. She belonged to him—that was his view of the matter—and he had a right to her best affection, her supremest interest. But he did not count it needful to repay her in kind.

He was getting on well, in the ordinary sense of the word; fulfilling thus far the aim which Cecilia Anderson had set before him in her life—not that which she had proposed to him in her dying message! He was giving satisfaction, receiving an increased salary, studying hard over-hours. Contented he was not, his whole heart being restlessly bent upon an early escape from the stationer's shop: but if not content with his position, he was well satisfied with himself. "I shall get on," was still the key-note of his tune.

There were changes passing over Felix: changes noted by the far-away watchful sister, whose only means of judging was through the post. She scrutinised his letters, re-reading them often, with an anxious endeavour to see "between the lines;" and often she was haunted by a sense of uneasiness. For these epistles were full to the brim with his own doings, his own affairs: and he wrote less affectionately than of old. Less and less room appeared to exist in his mind for aught but the one absorbing object.

If he might succeed fast enough to please himself, he asked no more. Earth and Heaven lay outside that desire, and Lettice was a mere adjunct to it. The passion of Felix Anderson's heart was, more and more exclusively—"self;" in marked contrast with the nobler passion of Lettice's heart. "To do Thy will:" "To have my way!" gives briefly the two aims. Felix lived for self, worked for self, mainly if not absolutely. Unselfish designs were not yet crushed out in him: but the crushing process was far advanced.

"And yet I am sure he loves me still—if he loves nobody else," thought Lettice, reflecting sadly on his not unfrequent assertion that he "made no friends." "Will he ever come here? If I could but see him again!"

At so early an hour, Lettice hardly expected to meet anybody. She kept mechanically to the main road, because too much absorbed to choose any other path: and presently she saw the postman coming. He greeted her with a "Good-morning, Miss," and held out a letter—only one, and that not from Felix. Had he really forgotten? The man passed on, and Lettice stood still to read.

"DEAR LETTICE,—You must have a line to tell of coming changes, which I think you would be grieved to learn in any other way than from ourselves.
"My father's long-standing embarrassments are not unknown to you. They have come to a point lately. Some months ago, he resolved to let or sell the dear old home, since farming had ceased to bring much profit, and difficulties were increasing. Sooner than we expected a purchaser has appeared: not offering the full value, or nearly that,—but still perhaps it is as good as we ought to hope.
"Unless you should be able to pay us a visit very soon—and you know how welcome you would be—you may never see the dear Farm again.
"Plans are very uncertain: but Wallace hopes to find some kind of work in London. We are not without interest there, and he has worked steadily at his books in the last three years. I think my father and mother will settle somewhere near London, to make a home for him: and either Nan or I—if not both of us—must be with them. Bertha will go on with her nursing.
"It all seems very sad and strange, but perhaps when the changes are over, things will be less hard to bear. I must not write more to-day.
"Ever your affectionate,
"PRUE VALENTINE."

Lettice shed a few quiet tears; and she could not have analysed how much of the feeling which caused them was due to sympathy with the Valentines' troubles, how much to her own distress at the silence of Felix. The sympathy was real, but the other pain was the sharper. He had never before entirely missed over a birthday of hers. She retraced her steps slowly, and presently in her rear came the sound of a quick tread overtaking hers.

A young man paused by her side, to ask, "Pray, is this the way to Quarrington Cottage?"

"Felix!" Even before she could turn to look at him, the voice was unmistakable.