It was her way of letting him do it without knowing that he had given way. To be sure, it was his finger that finally broke the flap of the envelope; but then, he retained all the dignity of the sacrifice. And so, as she leant over his shoulder, they read it together, with little exclamations of delight, little interruptions of pleasure, that need a heart for their purer translation, and cannot be written here because of that great gulf which is fixed behind the mind and the pen--because of that greater gulf which lies between the word and the eye that reads it. "_My dearest----_" Just those two words beginning; but they were almost the entire letter to her. They set her little brown eyes alight, her heart beating quickly behind the stiff bodice. "_I have left writing to you until the last moment for fear I should be unable to come on the day that you were expecting me. But it is all right. I am starting to-morrow morning, and shall be with you the usual time the day following, just about sunset. I can’t tell you how glad I shall be to get away from here. You know what London can be like in July, and I suppose I want a change as well. I can’t work these days at all--but I don’t mean to worry you. I expect I am depressed and want different air in my lungs. I shall go up to the bows of the steamer crossing to-morrow, stand there with my mouth open, and get it forced down my throat like a dose._ "_God bless you, dearest. Give my love to father, but don’t tell him I can’t work. I know he understands it well enough, but I believe it depresses him as much as it does me._" He looked up simply into her face as he handed back the paper. "You see, I wasn’t meant to read it," he said quietly. Impulsively, she put her arm round his neck. She knew so well how that had hurt. There had been letters sometimes that she was not meant to see. Of course, she had seen them; but that touch of intimacy which, when you are a lover, or a mother, makes letters such wonderful living things, had been utterly taken from them. They had contained loving messages to her. But the writing itself, that had been meant for another eye to read. "But it was only because he was thoughtful about you," she whispered--"not because he didn’t want you to see. He’ll tell you himself quickly enough that he can’t work when he comes. You see if he doesn’t. He can’t keep those sort of things to himself. He can do it in a letter, because he thinks he ought to. But he won’t be here five minutes before he’s telling you that he can’t write a line. And think! He’ll be here the day after to-morrow. Oh--he is such a dear boy! Isn’t he? Isn’t he the dearest boy two old people ever had in the world?" So she charmed the smile back into his eyes; never pausing until she saw that passing look of pain vanish completely out of sight. And so Claudina found them, as she had often found them before, poring once again over the letter as she brought in the big box.