affairs, so utterly alien to his thoughts and longings.

Cassandra’s replies were for the most part short, but they were sent with unfailing regularity, and always they seemed to bring with them a breath from her own mountain top — na�ve — tender — absolutely trusting — often quaintly worded, and telling of the simple, innocent things of her life. He could see that she held herself in reserve, even as her nature was; a psychologic something was held back. He could not dream what it might be, but reasoned with himself that it was only that she found it harder to unveil her thoughts by means of the pen than in speech.

One day, as he rode alone in the park, he noticed that the leaf buds were swelling. What! Was spring upon them? A white fog was lifting, and every