So John Risca sat down at Sir Oliver's study-table in order to indite his letter to Stellamaris. But for a long time he stared at the white paper. He, the practised journalist, who could dash off his thousand words on any subject as fast as pen could travel, no matter what torture burned his brain, could not find a foolish message for a sick child. At last he wrote like a school-boy:
Darling: The flowers were beautiful, and so is the new picture, and I want to see you early in the morning. I hope you are well. John Risca.
And he had to tear the letter out of its envelope and put it into a fresh one because he had omitted to add the magic initials “G. H. B.” to his name. Compared with his usual imaginative feats of correspondence, this was a poverty-stricken epistle. She would wonder at the change. Perhaps his demand for an immediate interview would startle her, and shocks were dangerous. He tore up the letter and envelope, and went to his own room. It was past two o'clock when he crept downstairs again to lay his letter on the hall table.
At the sight of him the next morning the color deepened in the delicate cheeks of Stellamaris, and her dark eyes grew bright. She held out a welcoming hand.
“Ah, Belovedest, I 've been longing to see you ever since dawn. I woke up then and could n't go to sleep again because I was so excited.”
He took the chair by her bedside, and her fingers tapped affectionately on the back of the great hand that lay on the coverlid.
“I suppose I was excited, too,” said he, “for I was awake at dawn.”
“Did you look out of window?”
“Yes,” said John.
“Then we both saw the light creeping over the sea like a monstrous ghost. And it all lay so pallid and still,—did n't it?—as if it were a sea in a land of death. And then a cheeky little thrush began to twitter.”