"ARTHUR WARDLAW."


Helen Rolleston read this letter more than once. She liked it none the
less for being disconnected and unbusiness-like. She had seen her
Arthur's business letters; models of courteous conciseness. She did not
value such compositions. This one she did. She smiled over it, all
beaming and blushing; she kissed it, and read it again, and sat with it
in her lap.

But by and by her mood changed, and, when Mr. Hazel ventured upon deck
again, he found her with her forehead sinking on her extended arm, and
the lax hand of that same arm holding the letter. She was crying.

The whole drooping attitude was so lovely, so feminine, yet so sad, that
Hazel stood irresolute, looking wistfully at her.

She caught sight of him, and, by a natural impulse, turned gently away,
as if to hide her tears. But the next moment she altered her mind, and
said, with a quiet dignity that came naturally to her at times, "Why
should I hide my care from you, sir? Mr. Hazel, may I speak to you _as a
clergyman?"_

"Certainly," said Mr. Hazel, in a somewhat faint voice.

She pointed to a seat, and he sat down near her.

She was silent for some time; her lip quivered a little; she was
struggling inwardly for that decent composure which on certain occasions
distinguishes the lady from the mere woman; and it was with a pretty firm