"My love, that is just what I thought you would do. And what I would have you do, if you go at all. It is not unmaidenly. Simple honest frankness, is the most maidenly thing in the world, when it is a woman's time to speak. The fact that your speaking must be action does not alter the matter. When it takes two years for people to hear from each other, life would very soon be spent in the asking of a few questions and getting the answers to them. I am a disinterested witness, Eleanor; for when you are gone, all I care for in this world is gone. You are my own child to me now."
Eleanor's head bent lower.
"But I am glad to have you go, nevertheless, my child. I think Mr. Rhys wants you even more than I do; and I have known for some time that you wanted something. And besides—I shall only be separated from you in body."
Eleanor made no response.
"What are you going to do now?" was Mrs. Caxton's question in her usual calm tone.
"Write to mamma."
"Very well. Do not send your letter to her without letting mine go with it."
"But aunt Caxton," said Eleanor lifting up her head,—"my only fear is—I am quite satisfied in my own mind, and I do not care for people—my only fear is, lest Mr. Rhys himself should think I come too easily. You know, he is fastidious in his notions." She spoke with great difficulty and with her face a flame.
"Your fear will go away when you have heard my story," said Mrs. Caxton tranquilly. "I will give you that to-night. He is fastidious; but he is a sensible man."
Quieted with which suggestion, Eleanor went off to her desk.