“I’m truly thankful to hear you say so, my dear,” replied the lady, who was intensely relieved. “Now, will you give me another cup of tea, and let us talk of something else?” It was not easy for Letty’s shaking hands to pour out tea, and even more difficult to ‘talk of’ something else. The fragile invalid had just dealt her a shattering blow, and all the exquisite whisperings of her young hopes were crushed and silenced. Pride, the legacy of generations, now came to her assistance, and she discoursed of trifling village matters and the Ridgefield bazaar with true Spartan fortitude, whilst all the time a cruel, sharp-toothed fox, was rending her tender heart. When at last she rose to go, Mrs. Denton drew her down and embraced her with unusual warmth and significance. It was such a comfort that the dear child had taken her talk in good part; and that night to her prayers she added a few words of devout thankfulness, and asked for a special blessing on Letty Glyn. “The girl was too young to realise or reciprocate Lancelot’s attachment; she was just a child, a dear, dear child,” and with this consoling reflection, Mrs. Denton closed her eyes, and slept the sleep of the just, and the justified. But Letty, as she walked up the village that star-lit January evening, felt as if a door had been closed upon her, and that darkness had descended on the world. CHAPTER VIII Although she searchingly scrutinised her niece’s appearance, Mrs. Fenchurch failed to discover any trace of actual misery in face or attitude. Certainly Letty was pale; but the weather was exceptionally trying, and Mrs. Denton, who had been as good as her word, assured her that the child had taken her ‘little talk’ in the best part, and behaved beautifully! Yet Letty, for all her outward composure, was absolutely wretched; her little glimpse into Paradise had been speedily eclipsed. So she must never think of Lancelot Lumley, nor he of her, and she now seemed to sit in a prison behind bars, and in outer darkness. Her only comforts were her uncle, with his cheery nature and his warm affection, and Sam the pug. Lancelot had liked Sam, and said he was ‘a good sort,’ and up in her own room she confided many sorrows to Sam, and laid her wet cheek against his velvet jowl, and dropped tears over his fawn head, whilst he snorted, goggled, and sympathised dog-fashion. Among her little circle, it was surprising how reserved and secretive Letty could be; the only one who divined her trouble, was eagle-eyed Mrs. Hesketh--who understood and marvelled at the little girl’s pride and fortitude. The lady also experienced some sharp twinges from a rather drowsy conscience. She had been wrong to bring the young people together, and now, as she half feared, _they_ were paying. As a sop to her remorse, she presented Letty with a superb sable boa; but even this had no effect--positively it might as well have been rabbit skin! for all the girl seemed to care.