Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other--not before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man were closely written and long--outpourings of an affection which carried all before it. The earlier ones--for Philippa placed them in consecutive order--were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way lessened, there was something of appeal--or so it seemed to her as she studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make the recipient understand the depth of love--to get below the surface, to obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return. This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He dwelt upon the strength of his love--of his desire for her happiness. Would she ever understand what she was to him--what his love meant? and so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart, such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand. By comparing the dates she found it. It was a hurried scrawl, and read as follows-- "DEAREST FRANCIS, "I have just had your letter. I never knew such an old boy as you are to worry your head about nothing. Of course I love you. Why do you want me to go on repeating it? But I can't stand heroics, or see any sense in them. I am having a jolly time here. We went to the Milchester races yesterday, and had a very good day. Forest has got a young chestnut that jumps like a stag, I wish you had been there to see it. It would make a first-class hunter, after you'd handled it a bit, and I could do with another if we are going to be at Bessacre next season. "I shall see you on Friday. Post just going. "Best love. "PHIL." Philippa wondered whether the heart of the man had taken comfort from the phrase, "I wish you had been there to see." It was rather like giving a crumb to one who demanded bread; but after all, she told herself, she had not known the writer, and many people have no aptitude for expressing their feelings on paper; and although the woman's letters were not particularly affectionate and showed a want of deep feeling, still, there was a certain insouciance, a gaiety about them which was far from unpleasing. It was only that as love-letters they were hardly satisfactory.