"I can't stand seeing the child going about like this. She looks the ghost of what she was five or six months back, and seems to have no spirit left. I shall have to speak to her. It is most painful and awkward on the very eve of the marriage, but if she is not happy--" "Perhaps it is only that she is tired, and feels the prospect of leaving home," said Hilary; and at that very moment the door was burst open and in rushed Lettice herself, cheeks flushed, hair loose, eyes dancing with merriment. She and Raymond had just played a trick upon unsuspecting Miss Briggs with magnificent success. She was breathless with delight, could hardly speak for bursts of laughter, and danced up and down the room, looking so gay and blithe and like the Lettice of old, that her father wont off to his study with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Hilary was right. The child was happy enough. If she were a little quieter than usual it was only natural and fitting under the circumstances. He dismissed the subject from his mind, and settled contentedly to work. One thing was certain: Arthur Newcome was a most attentive lover. Lettice contented herself with scribbling two or three short notes a week, but every afternoon the postman brought a bulky envelope addressed to her in the small neat handwriting which was getting familiar to every member of the household. Norah had an insatiable passion for receiving letters, and was inclined to envy her sister this part of her engagement. "It must be so lovely to get long epistles everyday. Lettice, I don't want to see them, of course, but what sort of letters does he write? What does he talk about? Is it all affection, or does he tell you interesting pieces of news?" Lettice gave the sheets a flick with her white fingers. "You can read it if you like. There is nothing private. I must say he does not write exciting letters. He has been in Canterbury, and this one is a sort of guide-book about the crypt. As if I wanted to hear about crypts! I must say I did not think when I was engaged that I should have letters all about tombs and stupid old monuments! Arthur is so serious. I suppose he thinks he will `improve my mind,' but if I am to be improved I would rather read a book at once and not be lectured in my love letters." She had never spoken so openly before, and Norah dared not let the opportunity pass. "Oh, Lettice, dear! aren't you happy? aren't you satisfied?" she cried earnestly. "I have been afraid sometimes that you were not so fond of Arthur as you should be. Do, do speak out, dear, if it is so, and put an end to things while there is time!"