So she was first—­the Cathedral clock had struck three some minutes before, she was perplexed to know what to do with herself, and began walking slowly to the other end.  Of all possible contretemps, the non-appearance of Du Meresq had never suggested itself; but after a couple of turns the unwelcome misgiving strengthened, and there would be only one at the tryst that day.

In a tumult of disappointment and indignation, conjecture after conjecture chased each other; while ever and anon her fancy was mocked by some one turning in at the gates bearing a general resemblance to Du Meresq, only to be dispelled by a nearer and more accurate view.

A simple explanation suddenly dawned; Bertie might have written to warn her of an unavoidable absence.  The possibility of such a letter, which, had she had received it in the morning, would have been the bitterest disappointment, now seemed a resurrection from despair to hope, and with relaxed features and brightening eyes, Bluebell walked rapidly through the gates to the Post-office.

Letters were so rare and unlooked for at the cottage, that the postman never included it in his rounds; and the contents of the pigeon-hole appropriated to them at the office was seldom inquired for, except on mail-days, when there might be an off-chance of an English letter for Miss Opie.  Even Bluebell, who for the first fortnight after her banishment from “The Maples” had been a regular applicant, had not been near it since Bertie’s visit to the cottage.

“Two letters for Miss Theodora Leigh.”  One she scarcely looked at; the other instinct told her must be Bertie’s handwriting; it had been lying two days at the Post-office.

“My dearest Bluebell,” ran this note, “I can’t come to the Avenue on Wednesday, being now entirely confined to the sofa with my ankle, which has gone to the bad.  I am only staying on now with sick leave, and the Chief very sulky at that.  When shall I again see those beloved, angel-like, soft blue eyes?  Don’t write to me here, for, as you may remember, the orderly fetches the letters, and my august brother-in-law sometimes deals them round.

  “Your ever devotedly attached,
  “A.  Du M.”

Poor Bluebell, as she read these few and rather cavalier lines, felt for the moment as if she had never suffered till now; his hinted at departure, and apparent resignation to absence from her, was a severe shock, and, in the first hot feeling of grief, the scales fell from her eyes, and she began to see Bertie as he was, but she could not yet endure the light of reason, so resumed her voluntary blindness, and re-read the letter, and though very little of it could satisfy her expectations, she dwelt more on the few words that did.  After a while, she remembered the other letter, and found, with awakening interest, it was from Mrs. Rolleston.  This was written in a pleasant chit-chat style, giving an account of their every-day life since she left, and not at all avoiding Bertie’s name, the tedious effect of his toboggining accident being one of the chief incidents mentioned.  It wound up with saying that they expected her back as soon as she liked.