And when, in reply to her inquiry, "Any afternoon letters?" the smiling postmistress handed to her three or four, some for her father, but one, yes one, in recognised, though scarcely familiar handwriting, her heart gave a great throb of anticipation. "It has come," she thought to herself, as she turned to make her way homewards by the least frequented route. "Now I must pull myself together, and think it well--_well_ over!" Yet now that it had come, she almost shrank from facing the "it." Now that she believed the matter to be in her own hands, she wished she could put it from her. But soon her natural womanly feeling reasserted itself, and she realised--whatever her own decision might be--the gratification, the satisfaction to her self-respect of the definiteness, the actual expression in plain terms of Horace's regard for her, which, as she believed, the letter in her hand contained. And, as soon as she found herself in a part of the road where interruption was improbable, she broke the seal--for sealed the letter was, which in itself marked it as something out of the common--and drew forth the sheet it contained. It was dated from his club, and had been written only the day before. "My dear Miss Morion," it began--why did these four words, correct and natural enough under the circumstances, cause to pass through her a little thrill of--she scarcely knew what? Misgiving? Apprehension? Neither word expressed it clearly. It was more a sort of intuitive anticipation of some great impending change in the aspect of things, something which would cause her bewilderment as well as pain, which would, as it were, necessitate a reconstruction of all the theories as to herself and her own life, in which of late she had been living. She read on.