“Thank you,” said Joan, smiling faintly, “you are too good to me. Do not distress yourself; I dare say that I should have come to the same mind if I had not seen you, and I deserve it all.” Then Lady Graves went. “It was very painful,” she reflected, as she left the house. “That girl has a heart of gold, and I feel as though I had done something wicked, though Heaven knows that I am acting for the best. Why, there is that man Rock again, staring at the house! What can he be looking for? Somehow I don’t like him; his face and manner remind me of a cat watching a caged bird.” Joan watched the door close behind Lady Graves, then, pressing her hands to her head, she began to laugh hysterically. “It is like a scene out of a book,” she said aloud. “Well, the dream has come to an end sooner than I thought even. I knew it would, so what does it matter? And now what am I to do?” She thought a while, then went to the table and began to write. She wrote thus:— “DEAR SIR HENRY,— “I have received your letter, but could not answer it before because I was so ill. I am very much honoured by what you say in it, but it is not to be thought of that a gentleman in your position should marry a poor girl like me; and, if you did, I dare say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing that, as they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can’t nest with crows. It seems, from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I was ill. I remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no attention to it, since people often talk and write nonsense when they are off their heads. You will be glad to know that I hope to get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see anybody at present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon me. I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another situation as soon as I can get about. Thanking you again, “Believe me “Your affectionate      “JOAN. “P.S. You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as she is very _romantic._ I cannot help thinking how sorry you would be if I were to take you at your word. ‘Just fancy Sir Henry Graves married to a shop-girl!” Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious epistle, with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of art—indeed, just the kind of letter that a person of her position and bringing up might be expected to write to a former flame of whom, for reasons of her own, she wished to see no more.