“Don’t speak so coldly to me then, and I will tell you what I think; but I can’t if you turn away your head so stiffly and speak just as if I were the old Harry that you used to hate.” “I’m not sure that I don’t hate you till I have heard what you have to say for yourself.” “Yes, you are,” said Harry, twining her arm about his neck with confidence. “You needn’t think I’m so simple as not to know the difference between Annie who is sweet out of duty, and Annie who is sweet out of pleasure.” “Go on with your explanations.” “Well, you were disgusted with me, and thought I was degrading myself.” “Stephen told you that!” “Yes, and that you thought it nearly as bad as being a groom, and declared I should give it up in a month and idle about again, and that it would take you a long time to get used to having a trainer for a husband.” “Stephen--told you--that?” “Yes, of course; he was bound to tell me all you said!” “All--I--said?” “Yes, yes! Ah, you’re sorry now, aren’t you, my darling? You see you wanted me to work, and there is nothing else I’m fit for, unless I had gone for a soldier or sailor. And you see I’m not a bit horsier than I was before. You needn’t even know I’m a trainer unless you like. I had all the whips taken out of the hall to-day, and I hid my spurs and top boots and things that were lying about my room, so that you shouldn’t be reminded more of it than I could help. And see--I’ve taken out my horse-shoe pin; and I’ve shut up the dogs in the stable, and----Annie, Annie, what are you crying for?” “I--I don’t know in the least! Go on!” “Well, you see it did seem rather rough on a fellow, when I was doing my best, and not drinking--and working hard, so that I might have you with me--when you hardly ever wrote, and only answered about one out of three of my letters. I know they weren’t spelled properly; but, if you knew how I hate writing and what a trouble even a short note is to me--I never seem to be able to say what I mean in a letter, somehow, while your letters are just like talking--I think, if you knew how I hate it, you would answer more often than you do.” Annie raised her eyes, with a startled expression, to his face. “I don’t understand,” said she, slowly. “I answered all your notes--they were very few--and I wrote you a long letter, begging you to let me come and see you; did you get that? In it I told you I should be proud of the work you were doing, whatever it was. Did you get that letter, Harry?” He was startled in his turn, and sat looking at her for a few moments in bewilderment. Suddenly Annie sprung up, trembling. “Harry,” said she, in a low voice, “tell me quick--did you get the letter?” “No.” “Did you--did you ever receive anything sent to you by me?” “Oh, yes; I got three or four letters!” “Nothing else?” she asked, breathlessly. “Yes; once you sent me some red-and-white flowers. I’ve got them in my pocket-book.”