"I expect the truth of it is that like most dear women the religious question troubles you. How, you ask yourself, would Martin feel, if he married again, and died, and met Juliet in another sphere? What would happen when the two wives met?--I should laugh over that question, if I did not guess that it bites deep, for what sort of a spiritual world could it be in which jealousy and self-seeking counted before love! I can imagine Juliet meeting Grizel with open arms, and blessing her for having brought back joy to the beloved's heart; I can imagine them united by the very fact of their mutual love; what is utterly beyond my imagination is that having reached a higher plane of thought and vision, there should be any grudge, any envy, any question of who comes first! "We've got to _grow_, little girl! Plants _can_ grow in the dark; sickly, pale-coloured things, but they cannot flower. Think that over too. You'll find I am right. "I'm hanged if I am not preaching, after all. Sorry! You'll have to forgive me this time. "Dorothea and I have had `words.' She represents that as she allowed me to hear extracts from your letters for years past, she might now be treated to occasional extracts from mine. From a logical point of view there's nothing to be said, only--it can't be done. My letters are my own. Not so much as a comma can be shared. It appears also that a certain photograph has disappeared from her mantelpiece, and that she blames me. I took it right enough, _but it looked as if it wanted to come_! Give you my word it did. And it lives _perdu_ in a drawer, where no eye can see it but mine own, and I say good-night to it every night, and good-morning when I'm not too late, and an occasional salaam during the day, just to see that she's there all right! "We have just been giving a big send-off to a fellow in the regiment, Bedford by name, who is taking a few months' sick leave. His people are to meet him in Egypt as he can't stand an English winter, and he hopes to get back in spring. A bad case of rheumatism, which will play the dickens with his work if it is not stopped in time. The desert air is the best cure he can have, and he ought to put in a pretty good time. You'd like Bedford. A big, bony chap, rather after your own description of the fortunate orphan, with a curt, shy manner, which the women seem to approve. With men he is as straight as a die, and a splendid soldier. It gives one a choke in the throat to see Bedford hobble. "I've told him that I know a spinster lady in England who collects brasses, and asked him to keep a look-out for old specimens, so I expect you'll hear from him one of these days. It will give him an interest in poking about, and besides--Christmas is coming! "Well, good-bye, little girl. Take care of yourself, and look forward as I do to a good time coming! "Yours ever, "Jim Blair." CHAPTER THIRTEEN.