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uncomfortable feeling. Lucille, who had always seemed strong-minded, appeared in the light of a little martyr, who had been sacrificed on the altar of mistakes. She looked much younger as a married woman, than she had ever appeared as a young girl.

The two lunched together. Then Mrs Martin went into the library to borrow a book she had seen there two days ago. On the table she espied the letter addressed to her daughter. Something bulky in its appearance brought about a misgiving. She went to the door and called her daughter, who was in the drawing-room feeding the parrot with some fruit she had brought from the dining-room.

"Lucille, dear, did you know there was a letter here for you?"

Curiosity pierced in the tone of her voice. If they had been married longer, the letter would not have seemed so strange, but somehow. . . .

Lucille came into the room.

"From Clifford! how strange!"

She took it to the window. It was the first letter he had ever written her since their marriage. She wished she was alone.

Her mother, she knew, was watching her, watching the length of the letter. Had they quarrelled? Lucille was very reticent some-