"Good night. The mosquitos are not favourable to epistle writing. I am well. Remember me, as I remember you.
"R. R."
"Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor after reading this letter for the second or third time,—"have we a supply of mosquito netting among my boxes? I could get the better of the mosquitos, I think."
"How would you like to help bind books?" said Mrs. Caxton. "Or translate? Mr. Rhys seems to be about that business, by what he says in the other letter."
"He would not want help in that," said Eleanor, musing and flushing.
"Aunt Caxton—is it foolish in me to wish I could hear once more from
Mr. Rhys before I go?"
"Only a little foolish, my love; and very natural."
"Then why is it foolish?"
"Because reason would tell you that it is simply impossible your letters could receive an answer by this time. They have perhaps but barely got to Mr. Rhys this minute. And reason would tell you further that there is no ground for supposing he is in any different mind from that expressed when he wrote to you."
"But—you know—since then he does not say one word about it, nor about me," said Eleanor flushing pretty deep.
"There is reason for that, too. He would not allow himself to indulge hope; and therefore he would not act as if he had any. That sight of you at Brighton threw him off a good deal, I judge."