walk to the post-office would do her good.

She came upon Jeffcott in one of the shrubberies, and he stopped
her with the freedom of an old servant.

"Beggin' your pardon, missie, but you'll let me wish you joy?" he
said. "I heard the good news this morning."

She stood still. His friendly look went straight to her heart,
stirring in her an urgent need for sympathy.

"Oh, Jeffcott," she said, "I'd never have given in if Mr. Ranger
hadn't stopped writing."

"Lor!" said Jeffcott. "Did he now?" He frowned for an instant.
"But---didn't you have a letter from him last week?" he questioned.
"Friday morning it were. I see Evans, the postman, and he said as
there were a South African letter for you. Weren't that from Mr.
Ranger, missie?"

"What?" said Sylvia sharply.

"Last Friday it were," the old man repeated firmly. "Why, I see
the letter in his hand top of the pile when he stopped in the drive
to speak to me. We both of us passed a remark on it."

Sylvia was staring at him. "Jeffcott, are you sure?" she said.

"Sure as I stand here, Miss Sylvia," he returned. "I couldn't have
made no mistake. Didn't you have it then, missie? I'll swear to