“I have not writ to him lately,” she said. “I cannot tell how to write. What should I do? I have none but you to advise me, and you, too, will now be gone. Tell me what I should do, Jack?”
“Write again; write often. One letter among many may get to him.”
“But if he should no longer care? If he should by now have forgot me?”
“He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly; be sure he is trusting you.”
Something of a gleam came to her face.
“You think that? You think I may trust him yet, and not be over bold? It is so long—over five years!—and no letter from him of later date than the summer of 1806. May he not have forgot?”
“He will not forget. Roy is convinced on that point.”
“But does Roy know? Jack, sometimes I wonder—if indeed Captain Ivor loves me still, as once he did—I wonder why does he not ask me to go out to him there? If he asked me, I would go—I would indeed! And he has never from the first said any such word; and I cannot say it. It is not for me to offer to go; but sure, if he wished it, he might send some words—by some private hand——”
Jack was silent—thinking.
“And there is that French girl—whom Roy is so fond of—always with them as one of themselves—always near Captain Ivor.”