During the next eight months Phyllis received many letters from Ella--some from Switzerland, some from Italy, and one from Calcutta. Ella had gone to India to make further inquiries on the subject of Buddhism. At any rate, no one whose heart was set upon building up a New Church could afford, she said, to ignore Buddhism as a power. Mr. Holland agreed with her, she said. He had gone through India with her. She returned to England in April, and of course went to see Phyllis without delay. Some men had wanted to marry Phyllis during the winter, as everybody knew, but she had been pleasantly irresponsive. Some of her closest friends (female) laughed and said that she had found out how silly she had been in throwing over Mr. Holland. It was not, however, of these suitors that Ella talked to her. It was of Herbert Courtland. Had she heard from him? she asked. Yes; he occasionally sent her his address, Phyllis said--that was all. “You will write to him to come back to you, Phyllis?” said Ella entreatingly. Phyllis shook her head. “Dearest child,” continued Ella, “I know the goodness of your heart. I know the high ideal of honor and faith which you have set before you. I saw Herbert when our steamer stopped at Port Said. He had been in Abyssinia--you know that?” “I knew that.” “I talked with him for an hour,” said Ella. “He told me a great deal about you--about your parting from him. You will write those words to him before I leave this room.” Phyllis shook her head. “Oh, yes, you will, when I tell you what I did not tell him--when I tell you that George Holland and I have agreed that our positions as joint trustees of the New Church will be immeasurably strengthened if we are married.” “What?” Phyllis had risen. “We are to be married in three months. The matter is, of course, to remain a secret--people are so given to talk.” Phyllis fell into her arms and kissed her tearfully--but the tears were not all her own. “Now you will write those words,” said Ella. Phyllis ran to a little French escritoire and snatched up a sheet of paper. “Come to me, my beloved,” she wrote upon it; then she leaned her face upon her arm, weeping happily. Ella came behind her. She picked up the paper and folded it up. She pressed the bell. “Please give that to Mr. Courtland in the study,” she said to the servant. Phyllis sprang up with a cry. “I forgot to tell you, my dearest, that I brought back Herbert Courtland in that steamer with me, and that he came with me to-day. He is coming to you--listen--three steps at a time.” And that was just how he did come to her. “Bless my soul!” cried Mr. Ayrton, ten minutes later. “Bless my soul! I always fancied that----Ah, after all, what is marriage?” “Oh!” cried Phyllis. “The last word that can be said regarding it is that marriage is the picturesque gateway leading to the commonplace estate.” “Oh!” cried Phyllis End of Project Gutenberg’s Phyllis of Philistia, by Frank Frankfort Moore