his unhappiness over her neglect was less direct,
but none the less comforting to him. "I am constantly
moving about," the letter ran, "and have
much to do and cannot always answer your letters,
so please do not expect them too often. But I am
always thinking of you and your kindness to dear
Martha. You do for me when you do for her."

After this it became a settled habit between them,
he writing by the weekly steamer, telling her every
thought of his life, and she replying at long intervals.
In these no word of love was spoken on her side; nor
was any reference made to their last interview. But
this fact did not cool the warmth of his affection
nor weaken his faith. She had told him she loved
him, and with her own lips. That was enough--
enough from a woman like Jane. He would lose
faith when she denied it in the same way. In the
meantime she was his very breath and being.

One morning two years after Jane's departure,
while the doctor and his mother sat at breakfast,
Mrs. Cavendish filling the tea-cups, the spring sunshine
lighting up the snow-white cloth and polished
silver, the mail arrived and two letters were laid
at their respective plates, one for the doctor and the
other for his mother.

As Doctor John glanced at the handwriting his
face flushed, and his eyes danced with pleasure.