_It seemed so odd this morning to be called--to have tea brought to me instead of taking it to mamma--to have no bed to make, nor breakfast things to wash up. Nothing to do, in fact, except order the dinner. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, is very nice. I think we shall be great friends. Her dairy is beautiful; they have those churns that darling father and I used to long for at Lissendean. I almost cried, remembering._ _This morning was gloriously fine. Osbert took me out over the farms, and showed me the horses and the cornland and all the estate. I was very silly and got faint when we had gone some way. You see, I don't like to confess to him how run down I have been; and having had so little food for so long, I have no appetite, and the very sight of the abundant meals makes me feel ill. I simply can't swallow. I know this good air will make me better by degrees._ _Oh, darling, I felt so homesick--so deadly homesick last night. I thought of you all, and wondered what you were doing, how you were getting on, and whether you missed Virgie. Also I remembered that I never showed Caroline the place where your surgical things are kept. You must show her before the great doctor comes. Oh, how anxious I shall be until I hear all about his visit. Keep up your heart, darling. I know you will be much better before long._ _Osbert has given me a little sitting-room for my own. I am writing there now. He has given me a splendid emerald ring, and another with a diamond in it._ _Oh, Pansy, love, darling, pet, write and tell me everything--just everything you can think of, because I am very lonely._ _Your own most loving_ Virgie. _P.S.--Hugs and kisses to my old Tony. I hope the bat is satisfactory._ While this letter was being read, there was complete stillness in the room. The writer stood in the window, her back turned to Gaunt. He, when he had finished reading, let the hand which held the paper drop between his knees, while he sat staring upon the motionless figure of his wife. He could not doubt that the letter was spontaneous. She had evidently no idea at all of his demanding to see it. But, if it were true, then what was he? Had he made the greatest mistake of his life? "What induced you," he demanded huskily, "to write such a letter as this?" She turned round, puzzled. "What do you mean?" "If you had written as you felt about me and my treatment of you----" "But I cannot do that. I am bound to be loyal to you," she said quietly. "You know it. Besides, I may suffer, and perhaps I deserve it. They never shall, if I can help it." "But they shall, and can," he snarled. "This child will suffer if she never sees you again--and she never shall. No, by----"