Diana's friends never found her dull; but they gradually grew to realise that her horizon had widened immeasurably beyond their own; that the focussing points in her field of vision were things totally unseen by themselves; that, in some subtle way, she had developed and grown beyond their comprehension. They loved her still, but they left her. Diana Rivers, of Riverscourt, ceased to be the centre of an admiring crowd. They left her; but she was not conscious of their going. She stood alone; yet did not know that she was lonely. The only leaving of which she was aware, was that David had left her on their wedding-day; the only loneliness, that David never intended to return. Truly, the little leaven had leavened the whole lump. The glitter and the glamour of the kingdoms of this world had passed away. The kingdom of heaven held sway in Diana's heart. But the King of that kingdom, at this period of Diana's life, was David. CHAPTER XXV THE PROPERTY OF THE CROWN The summer passed in perpetual expectation; which, when autumn arrived, seemed ripe for fulfilment. Diana's mind was so absorbed by her love for David, that she scarcely realised how completely she kept it out of her letters; or that his reticence might merely have been a reflection of her own. Also she every now and then relieved her feelings by writing him a complete outpouring. This, often written side by side with her letter for the mail, she would seal up in an envelope addressed to David, and place in a compartment of the sandal-wood box in which she kept all his letters, with a vague idea that some day she herself would be able to place in his hands these unposted missives. One afternoon, just as she was closing both envelopes, callers arrived. They stayed to tea; leaving, only a few minutes before Rodgers came in with the post-bag. Diana stamped her letter, and placed it in the bag. Then spent half an hour looking through some of David's before locking them up with the one she had just written. This was especially full of tenderness and longing; and, though the quick blood mantled her cheek at the recollection of words it contained, her heart felt lightened and relieved. "How foolish I am," she thought; "no wiser than the ordinary married women, whom I used to despise." She took up a little pile of these letters, lying safely in their own compartment in the sandal-wood casket. "They all belong to David," she whispered. "Some day--he will see them." Then something about the address of the one she had just placed with the rest, caught her eye. The writing was hurried, and more like that which she had rapidly finished for posting, while Rodgers waited. She tore it open. _My dear David._ She glanced at the end. Then she sprang up and pealed the bell. _Yours affectionately_, _Diana Rivers_, was in her hand. _Your wife_, _who loves you and longs for you_, had gone to David!