The Real Charlotte. 247 



and after that had unlocked her trunk, taken out Hawkins' 

 letters, and going back to bed had read and re-read them 

 there. The old glamour was about them ; the convincing 

 sincerity and assurance that was as certain of her devotion 

 as of his own, and the unfettered lavishness of expression 

 that made her turn hot and cold as she read them. She 

 had time to go through many phases of feeling before the 

 chapel-bell began to ring for eight o'clock Mass, and she 

 stole down to the kitchen to see if the post had come in. 

 The letters were lying on the table; three or four for 

 Charlotte, the local paper, a circular about peat litter 

 addressed to the Stud-groom, Tally Ho, and, underneath 

 all, the thick, rough envelope with the ugly boyish writing 

 that had hardly changed since Mr. Hawkins had written his 

 first letters home from Cheltenham College. Francie 

 caught it up, and was back in her own room in the twink- 

 ling of an eye. It contained only a few words. 



" Dearest Francie, only time for a line to-day to say that 

 I am staying on here for another week, but I hope ten days 

 will see me back at the old mill. I want you like a good 

 girl to keep things as dark as possible. I don't see my way 

 out of this game yet. No more to-day. Just off to play 

 golf; the girls here are nailers at it. Thine ever, Gerald." 



This was the ration that had been served out to her 

 hungry heart, the word that she had wearied for for a week; 

 that once more he had contrived to postpone his return, 

 and that the promise he had made to her under the tree in 

 the garden was as far from being fulfilled as ever. Chris- 

 topher Dysart would not have treated her this way, she 

 thought to herself, as she stooped over her darning and bit 

 her lip to keep it from quivering, but then she would not 

 have minded much whether he wrote to her or not — 

 that was the worst of it. Francie had always confidently 

 announced to her Dublin circle of friends her intention 

 of marrying a rich man, good-looking, and a lord if possible, 

 but certainly rich. But here she was, on the morning after 

 what had been a proposal, or what had amounted to one, 

 from a rich young man who was also nice-looking, and 

 almost the next thing to a lord, and instead of sitting down 

 triumphantly to write the letter that should thrill the North 

 Side down to its very grocers' shops, she was darning stock- 



