He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. One night she apparently fell asleep. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. Something in his tone pinched her heart. “Dear John,” she whispered. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. The water was cold but she waded deeper. Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand.
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