"Never mind now! I'll have my birthday walk," declared the girl cheerfully, putting aside unwelcome recollections. "Nothing lasts always. Some day perhaps I shall have a home with Felix. But that would mean leaving uncle Bryant! Must everything in life hurt one somewhere? Well—no need to look forward. Things will come right one way or another: and isn't the sunshine good now?" Lettice loved an early ramble in bright weather; and this was almost her first since wintry mornings. Now and again in summer Dr. Bryant would be her companion; a treat to them both, which might not often be ventured on, because of Theodosia's jealousy. Lettice had indeed half-hoped to see him appear on this particular day: but he did not. Why should he? He was famed for forgetting birthdays, unless reminded of them: and Theodosia would not remind him. Lettice, perhaps, scarcely realised how warm a corner she occupied in the heart of the elderly man, labouring under the disappointment and loneliness of one who is mistaken in the wife of his choice. Dr. Bryant knew now, with a knowledge which left no loophole for a mistake, not only that his wife loved his money better than himself, but—worse still—that her word was not to be depended on. "He will not remember, of course. But I am sure Felix will write to me, quite sure," murmured Lettice, as she walked. She dwelt earnestly on the thought of Felix, weighing his probable future. Lettice did not love Felix less because she loved Dr. Bryant. The more one loves, the more one has power to love. He was very near her heart, even though she received scant show of love from him. She belonged to him—that was his view of the matter—and he had a right to her best affection, her supremest interest. But he did not count it needful to repay her in kind. He was getting on well, in the ordinary sense of the word; fulfilling thus far the aim which Cecilia Anderson had set before him in her life—not that which she had proposed to him in her dying message! He was giving satisfaction, receiving an increased salary, studying hard over-hours. Contented he was not, his whole heart being restlessly bent upon an early escape from the stationer's shop: but if not content with his position, he was well satisfied with himself. "I shall get on," was still the key-note of his tune. There were changes passing over Felix: changes noted by the far-away watchful sister, whose only means of judging was through the post. She scrutinised his letters, re-reading them often, with an anxious endeavour to see "between the lines;" and often she was haunted by a sense of uneasiness. For these epistles were full to the brim with his own doings, his own affairs: and he wrote less affectionately than of old. Less and less room appeared to exist in his mind for aught but the one absorbing object.