The manager evidently felt he "owed me one," for, as he handed me the receipt he said: "I am sorry you would not let us have that story to print. I was thinking of calling it 'One Every Minute.'" XXXVII ANGLIA OR FRONTENAC? You will be surprised to learn that the car is on the dock at Tilbury, boxed and waiting for the _Georgic_ to sail, and that we are returning on the _Adriatic_ in about a week! "What has happened?" I can imagine you saying. Well, so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin! What do you suppose Ruth had to tell me when I reached the hotel? Perhaps you have guessed. Yes, our dearest hopes are at length--please God--to be realized. Ruth had not been quite like herself since the breakdown at Ross, and had written Maud, who at once said there was but one man in the world for her to see--you know what women are about their pet doctors! So, as you already have been told, Maud hastened to Barchester, I was bundled out of the way, and the two sisters came to town and saw the great man. "He was perfectly lovely," said Ruth to me, her eyes full of tears. "How old is he?" I suspiciously asked. "He looked like papa," said Ruth, and burst into tears. Well, the important matter is that he told her she was not mistaken but urged her to take great care of herself. She asked if she might motor? "It would be better," he replied, for her to "job a brougham," while she was in town, because the taxi men drove so recklessly. "But what about motoring in the country?" "With a very careful driver, and on smooth roads I should have no objection to a few miles a day. But, indeed, you cannot be too careful." When I heard that I turned cold! "A careful driver and smooth roads!" I thought of the hill at Sawley and the sidewalk at Shrewsbury, the "narrer road" in Ireland with the leap to the top of the hedge, and of the railway crossing! I hurried to the garage and drove the car--not across London this time, but--around it, and came to Tilbury as soon as I could. I was afraid the car might do us an injury if it were not quickly boxed! So our journey has come to an unexpected end, and you will have to read no more letters, for we shall be home, I hope, almost as soon as this reaches you. Now that my face is turned homeward I am impatient to arrive. I want to see the dear people and to get to work once more on the noisy old corner. And, above all, I want to drop into the study after working hours--say between eleven and twelve at night, and when the pipes are drawing well, listen to you talk. "No," I can fancy you saying, "you don't want to listen, you want to talk!" Well, perhaps both! But before I see you I want to make a sort of _Apologia_ for the letters I have written you.