The Real Charlotte. 267 



hint ; but an unused half sheet at the end of her letter 

 tempted her on, and before she well knew what she was 

 saying, all the jealousy and hurt tenderness and helpless 

 craving of the past month were uttered without a thought 

 of diplomacy or pride. Then a long time had gone by, and 

 there had been no answer from Hawkins. The outflung 

 emotion that had left her spent and humbled, came back in 

 bitterness lo her, as the tide gives back in a salt flood the 

 fresh waters of a river, and her heart closed upon it, and 

 bore the pain as best it might. 



It was not till the middle of October that Hawkins 

 answered her letter. She knew before she opened the 

 envelope that she was going to be disappointed ; how could 

 anyone explain away a silence of two months on one sheet 

 of small note-paper, one side of which, as she well knew, 

 was mainly occupied by the regimental crest, much less 

 reply in the smallest degree to that letter that had cost so 

 much in the writing, and so much more in the repenting of 

 its length and abandonment ? Mr. Hawkins had wisely 

 steered clear of both difficulties by saying no more than 

 that he had been awfully glad to hear from her, and he 

 would have written before if he could, but somehow he 

 never could find a minute to do so. He would have given 

 a good deal to have seen that row with Miss Mullen, and 

 as far as Dysart was concerned, he thought Miss Mullen 

 had the rights of it ; he was going away on first leave now, 

 and wouldn't be back at Lismoyle till the end of the year, 

 when he hoped he would find her and old Charlotte as 

 good friends as ever. He, Mr. Hawkins, was really not 

 worth fighting about ; he was stonier broke than he had 

 ever been, and, in conclusion, he was hers (with an illegible 

 hieroglyphic to express the exact amount), Gerald Hawkins. 



Like the last letter she had had from him, this had come 

 early in the morning, but on this occasion she could not go 

 up to her room to read it in peace. The apartment that 

 she shared with Ida and Mabel offered few facihties for 

 repose, and none for seclusion, and, besides, there was too 

 much to be done in the way of helping to lay the table and 

 get the breakfast. She hurried about the kitchen in her 

 shabby gown, putting the kettle on to a hotter corner of the 

 range, pouring treacle into a jampot, and filling the sugar- 



