“He’s waited a good deal longer than I have, poor Jack! He’s more than twelve years older than I am; do you remember how you used to throw that in my face? But it doesn’t matter the least in the world. Besides, you’d never think he was so old—he’s such a darling; and he talks like a poet, and a painter, and an archangel, all rolled into one. I am so wildly happy I can’t write a proper letter, only I do want you to know that your mother is mistaken, as we always thought. Jack is a saint—simply a saint. When my father behaved quite horridly, and said he couldn’t have me marrying a man who went away for two or three years on long, scientific expeditions, Jack said he wouldn’t do it any more, though I think it cost him something to say that. He was quite silent for hours afterward, and didn’t even notice I’d done my hair differently. And that horrid Mr. Borisoff was in such a rage. He didn’t say anything, but oh! he looked. But now he’s gone away, thank goodness, and I shall try to make Jack not ever see him again. Then another thing, just to show you what a perfect angel Jack is. My mother said I was delicate and too young, and things like that, and she got father to agree that I was only eighteen and was the weakling of the family, and they made up their wicked old minds that I mustn’t be married right away as Jack and I had arranged. And what do you think? Jack said he would wait for me? A whole year! I cried when they settled that, but wasn’t he a seraph? Fathers and mothers are very selfish; I shall not treat my daughters like that. “How Jack and I will ever get through a year of waiting is more than either of us know. I am not coming home till the first week in December, and Jack’s coming to us for Christmas. And then you’ll see him! I hope you are pleased that I’m going to marry the man we’ve talked so much about. It seems like another bond, doesn’t it? How is Louis Cheviot? I can forgive him now for always liking you best. I can’t imagine how I ever looked at him. Oh, Hildegarde, Jack is a perfect—well, I never heard the word that was beautiful enough to describe him. “Good-by, I hear him now out in the garden. Jack is the most perfect whistler. “Your loving and devoted “BELLA.” CHAPTER VII December did not bring Galbraith—nor even Bella. “Jack found he couldn’t leave that odious Mr. Borisoff to settle up some business all alone, but my brother Tom has got mama to consent to stay over Christmas with me in New York at Marion’s. So Jack and I shan’t die, as we fully intended to if we were separated.” Just as the girl and her mother, early in the new year, were at last going home, a cable came from England to say that Bella’s sister, Mrs. Hilton, had been badly hurt in a carriage accident.