a headache, she would remain at home. Her aunt offered to postpone
her visit. But she would not hear of it; and so she had the evening
to herself.

After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of a
letter to Leonard which would convey at least something of her
feelings and wishes towards him. In the depths of her heart, which
now and again beat furiously, she had a secret hope that when once
the idea was broached Leonard would do the rest. And as she thought
of that 'rest' a languorous dreaminess came upon her. She thought
how he would come to her full of love, of yearning passion; how she
would try to keep towards him, at first, an independent front which
would preserve her secret anxiety until the time should come when she
might yield herself to his arms and tell him all. For hours she
wrote letter after letter, destroying them as quickly as she wrote,
as she found that she had but swayed pendulum fashion between
overtness and coldness. Some of the letters were so chilly in tone
that she felt they would defeat their own object. Others were so
frankly warm in the expression of--regard she called it, that with
burning blushes she destroyed them at once at the candle before her.

At last she made up her mind. Just as she had done when a baby she
realised that the opposing forces were too strong for her; she gave
in gracefully. It would not do to deal directly in a letter with the
matter in hand. She would write to Leonard merely asking him to see
her. Then, when they were together without fear of interruption, she
would tell him her views.

She got as far as 'Dear Mr. Leonard,' when she stood up, saying to
herself: