Such was the association of seasons in Guida's mind until one day of a
certain year, when for a few hours a man had called her his wife, and
then had sailed away. There was no log that might thereafter record the
days and weeks unwinding the coils of an endless chain into that sea
whither Philip had gone.

Letters she had had, two letters, one in January, one in March. How many
times, when a Channel-packet came in, did she go to the doorway and watch
for old Mere Rossignol, making the rounds with her han basket, chanting
the names of those for whom she had letters; and how many times did she
go back to the kitchen, choking down a sob!

The first letter from Philip was at once a blessing and a blow; it was a
reassurance and it was a misery. It spoke of bread, as it were, yet
offered a stone. It eloquently, passionately told of his love; but it
also told, with a torturing ease, that the Araminta was commissioned with
sealed orders, and he did not know when he should see her nor when he
should be able to write again. War had been declared against France,
and they might not touch a port nor have chance to send a letter by a
homeward vessel for weeks, and maybe months. This was painful, of
course, but it was fate, it was his profession, and it could not be
helped. Of course--she must understand--he would write constantly,
telling her, as through a kind of diary, what he was doing every day,
and then when the chance came the big budget should go to her.

A pain came to Guida's heart as she read the flowing tale of his buoyant
love. Had she been the man and he the woman, she could never have
written so smoothly of "fate," and "profession," nor told of this
separation with so complaisant a sorrow. With her the words would have
been wrenched forth from her heart, scarred into the paper with the