It was a letter of congratulation. Dr. Milnes had read of her _début_ in Paris, and could not resist writing to tell her of the pleasure the account of it had given him. About himself he said very little. He and his partner were rapidly increasing their practice, and had got on as well as they could have hoped. He was on the brink of some new discovery in connection with the prevention of tuberculosis. When it was made, he would probably come to Europe, first to Vienna, then to England. He liked Colonial life, but would be glad to see the mother-country once again. Meanwhile, he sent his kind regards, and remained, “Sincerely yours, Geoffrey H. Milnes.” The girl passed the letter over for Lady Marjorie’s perusal; there was nothing in it that all the world might not read. It was the first communication, with the exception of birthday and Christmas cards, that she had received from him since he went away. The sight of it brought back old associations, memories so tender as to be almost akin to pain. Geoffrey’s honest face rose up before her mental vision; his strong young voice almost sounded in her ears; his delightful companionship was brought back to her remembrance. She rested her chin on her hand, and lost herself in a dream of long ago. The pleasant rides and drives they had enjoyed together, the hot-headed discussions, the musical confabulations; with what force they all recurred to her just when she was most anxious to forget. Why does everything change so, she wondered, half rebelliously? Why do all the sweet things of life pass away so soon to leave only bitterness behind? Why is there so much misunderstanding in the world; so much unhappiness brought about by cruel circumstance, so much heartache which could be avoided if we were all absolutely candid and truthful in our relations one towards another? Here was yet another side to that eternal question, _Why?_ Lady Marjorie’s voice recalled her to the present once more. “Poor old Geoff!” she exclaimed, replacing the letter in the envelope. “I am glad he is getting on so well. I used to think that he and you----” she paused. “Ah, well, never mind; I suppose I was mistaken after all. It is so easy to make mistakes, isn’t it? Shall you send Geoffrey an invitation to your wedding?” She did not mean to be unkind; but Celia felt as if she had received a sharp blow. Yet how foolish it was to be so sensitive. “I shall certainly send him an invitation if he happens to be in England,” she answered quietly; and there the matter dropped. When she saw David, a few days later, Celia told him that she was willing to be married before the close of the year. She was very quiet, very submissive: and when he proposed, that if all were propitious, the wedding should take place on her birthday, December 15th, she assented without a protest.