"Your letter has already comforted me. It is such a wonderful thing that my troubles and concerns are of more interest to you, so many thousand miles away, than to any of my friends here with whom I talk and live every day. I don't know that it is a good thing to write about oneself. I have never been in the habit of doing so; nor do I wish to spend much of my time in self-pity and self-introspection. Life has changed to me, of course. But it had changed before my father died. The glamour and joy of it had steadied down to quiet content. And so long as I had him to live for, I wanted nothing else. Yet there were reasons that made me thankful for his absence later on. "And now I try not to think whether I am happy or not. What does it matter? There are others who have as deep sorrows as I have had, and are taking life as I am taking it—just a day at a time, to be lived, not so much for oneself now, as for those who need our care and pity. Mrs. de Cressiers will not let me leave her. I must do so before long. But I do not think I will take refuge in towns. I love every inch of these sweet country lanes, every ripple of the river that laps under its green banks, always calling one down to the sea. My uncle asked me wistfully yesterday, when I happened to meet him trudging down to the river, where I was going to settle. He told me there was a small house empty upon the cliffs at Yalstone. 'I could often turn in when I'm fishing, and we'd have yarns together,' he said. But I had to shake my head. Much as I love the sea, I could not live so close to it. I told you in my last letter about Monica. Oh, isn't life perplexing and sad? And she has not the key of Faith to unravel it. It is all dark to her. I am going to see her this afternoon. "Do, please, tell me a little of your doings when next you write. I hear scraps about you from Gavine, who, of course, hears them from George Lockhart. She says you have had an attack of fever. Are you over it yet? Have you anyone—you see I am taking a leaf out of your book—who looks after you and nurses you when ill? "And now I'll answer some of your questions. I have Someone Who watches over me and notes if I am weary or tired; Someone Who guards and advises me; Someone Who brings smiles to my lips and stills the tears that rise, and understands the very thoughts of my heart; Someone Who daily makes that promise good: 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.' "And isn't it good to think that He is guarding and guiding us both at the same time—though the ocean may be between us—and shepherding us through the wilderness that leads to our Home? "Your fellow pilgrim, "SIDNEY." CHAPTER XVIII AUSTIN SPEAKS "WELL, Monica, dear, how are you?"