had taken upon him to write and pick up the thread of personal
friendship again and remind her of the past.

In what mood had he written this reminder? Sophia Rexford would surely
not have been a woman of the world if she had not asked herself this
question. Did he think that on seeing her again he would care for her as
before? Did he imagine that intervening years, which had brought
misfortune to her family, would bring her more within his grasp? Or was
his intention in writing still less pleasing to her than this? Had he
written, speaking so guardedly of past friendship, with the desire to
ward off any hope she might cherish that he had remained unmarried for
her sake? Sophia's lips did not curl in scorn over this last suggestion,
because she was holding her little court of inquiry in a mental region
quite apart from her emotions.

This woman's character was, however, revealed in this, that she passed
easily from her queries as to what the man in question did, or would be
likely to, think of her. A matter of real, possibly of paramount,
interest to her was to wonder whether his life had really expanded into
the flower of which she had thought the bud gave promise. She tried to
look back and estimate the truth of her youthful instinct, which had
told her he was a man above other men. And if that had been so, was he
less or more now than he had been then? Had he been a benefit to the new
country to which he had come? Had the move from the Old World to
this--the decision in which she had rashly aided with youthful
advice--been a good or a bad thing for him and for the people to whom he
had come?

From this she fell a-thinking upon her own life as, in the light of
Trenholme's letter, the contrast of her present womanly self with the