condition of my temperature, it would be perfectly impossible for me to concentrate my attention." He even looks rather injured when she herself takes up a book. But neither can she concentrate her attention. Her mind strays from the dreary wonder as to whether this enormous day will ever end, to the still more dreary wonder why she should wish it to end, seeing that it will only lead to another like it. There has been no break since breakfast-time, with the exception of the laying and removing of their early dinner, and the altercation about the sand-bags. No one has been near them, not even the postman! Doubtlessly every line is blocked, and all traffic suspended. The dark has long fallen; if that, indeed, can be said to have fallen which has reigned more or less all day. The gas has been turned up higher; the thin curtains drawn, with many futile jerks to the rings that will not run; the fire is new-built, and a sort of air of pseudo evening-comfort diffuses itself. Belinda's slow pulse begins to beat, and her blood to circulate a little more briskly. It quickens its pace perceptibly, when-oh blessed sight!—the lodging-house servant enters with a pile of letters in her chappy hand. Thank God, the line is not blocked after all! These are the London morning letters that should have come at 8 a.m. She snatches at them eagerly. They can bring her no great good news, but they make an unspeakably welcome interruption to the uniform dismalness of the long day. They remove the terrible feeling of isolation from all humankind, which hour by hour has been gaining ground upon her. There is a pile for the Professor; and for her a large fat envelope, bulging with enclosures, and directed in Sarah's hand. She draws her chair more closely to the hearth, and folds her soft furs warmlier about her. She will enjoy her letters at luxurious leisure. She unfastens the cover, and the enclosures fall out, six in number; a note from Sarah herself, four letters addressed in well-known and on this occasion warmly-welcomed female handwritings, and one in an unknown male hand. Is it unknown? A CHAPTER IX. "Es ist eine alte Geschichte, T first it seems so; but as she from which indeed it is never long absent, the image of another letter, to whose superscription this one, though less ill-written, has surely a strange likeness. She continues to look at it; a fear too terrible for words rising in her heart, and depriving her of the power of opening it. The fire crackles comfortably. The Professor turns the page of his letter. It is his third; and she has not yet opened her first. "I hope you have good news from home?" he says politely. "I-I believe so," she answers stammering. "I am not quite sure yet." She must conquer this ridiculous hesitation. Probably, certainly, she is the victim. of hallucination-of an accidental resemblance. The likeness is no doubt confined to the address. As soon as she sees the letter itself, she will laugh at her own foolish fancies. She tears it open, and tremblingly turns to the signature. There was no hallucination-no accidental resemblance! She was right. "David Rivers." For the first moment she is drowned in a rush of insensate joy, followed in one instant by such an anguish. of horror as makes her for a while unconscious of everything around her-everything but that rending, burning, searing pain. He has written to her at last! What has he to say to her now? To congratulate her upon her marriage? might have spared her that thrust! She He |