SAY what Felix might, he could not send Lettice off that day, before his own departure by the night-train; and he could gain no promise from the Valentines, further than that Lettice should travel westwards "so soon as Mr. Jasper allowed it." Lettice was powerless against that fiat; and Felix knew it. Inwardly, he fumed; outwardly, he urged the advantages of change. Lettice was growing morbid, he declared. "She has gone through enough to make her morbid," said Prue. Then, without warning, came the question: "Did you give my message to Mr. Kelly?" "I have not seen him yet." "If you would rather that one of us should write—" "As you like," Felix replied coldly. To himself, he declared, "I shall not say anything!" And Prue read this in the hardening lines of his mouth. "Then I will write," she said under impulse. "The Rev. Robert Kelly—is it not?" And with the sound of the name, a swift warm flush leapt to her face. "Yes." Prue stood with downcast eyes, thinking—not of Felix. "It is best not to trouble you. And the message was entrusted to me by—her. I must see that it reaches him." "As you like," repeated Felix, in frigid accents. Prue put the question aside until bedtime, till she sat in her room, by candle light, after the departure of Felix, practically alone, since Lettice was asleep. Then she weighed the question again. Should she write or should she not? Should she ask Bertha to do it? Yet—why not herself? There had been a time, many years sooner, when during six happy weeks, Prue had seen much of Robert Kelly. She had liked him, and he had liked her—so much that some had counted it to be far more than mere liking. But nothing had come of it all. A cloud had crept between somehow, and Mr. Kelly had drawn back—gently, so as not to give needless offence, but unmistakably. Prue suspected a misunderstanding, but she could do nothing. He might have taken steps to clear the mystery, if mystery existed. She could not stir. Then he went away, saying good-bye kindly and calmly, only looking rather pale: and Prue suffered in secret, but made no sign. Her life had been shadowed by the long pain of that girlish disappointment; yet she never spoke of it—even to her mother. Nor did she blame Robert Kelly. He might have been deceived about her: or she might have misread him. She was only sure of one thing, that he had not deliberately sought her, with any intent to deceive. She could far more easily believe, in the teeth of her own memory, that he had not sought her at all.