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T was a bright and cosey room, that little den of

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Muriel Dean's up under the eaves in the old country rectory where her quiet life, had been spent. The walls were of a dull, restful green, the silken curtains, and upholstery of the same tone. Furniture, pictures, and books. all spoke of an artistic sense and discrimination that gave one at once the feeling of companionship. The owner of this little room had travelled and from many a favourite city, among snowy Alps or Southern orange groves, had come the little mementoes that here served to carry the thought back from the quiet English village to the wide world from which they had come. The little Swiss clock that ticked on the mantelpiece, the flight of carved swallows across the wall, the Madonna that smiled from the little nook where the books were arranged, had come respectively from the borders of Lucerne and from a store that

opens on a sunny Italian plaza. The glittering mass of crystals, that caught and reflected the leaping flames of the crackling log-fire, had been wrested from a far-away cavern, once explored by their owner, and served as a memory of a joyous picnic day, the delights of which had been enhanced by a spice of danger. Those slender glasses, curiously wrought and almost as airy as soap-bubbles, spoke of Venice; that spangled scarf, of Cairo; the heavy cow-bell, of an Alpine pasture; and the tinted shells, of the wave-kissed beach of a Southern sea.

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and to friendly, companionable little room,

and to-day, the warmth and cosiness and the memory of far-off scenes made one forget the wintry weather without, though even that was beautiful to eyes that love the whiteness of unspoiled snow, the glitter of frost-spangled firtrees. Through the diamond squares of the window could be seen a fair landscape of winter witchery. All nature was white and still, with but one tiny scrap of active life and vivid colour. A little robin-redbreast was hopping back and forth from window ledge to near-by tree, with anxious eyes eagerly watchful for expected crumbs which, much to his disgust, had not materialised this morning.

The only occupant of the room had forgotten the waiting robin, had no eyes for snow-wrapped landscape, but sat in a reverie, gazing unseeingly into the heart of the glowing embers. The firelight drew glints of gold from her auburn hair and brought a rosy tint to her cheek, but she was evidently looking beyond its red caverns into the world of her own dreams. Hers was a girlish, slender figure, clad in a gown of moss green, the square neck of which was embroidered in dull gold, matching well the wrought gold of her belt and the artistic comb that caught and restrained her somewhat wayward tresses.

Muriel Dean was of a joyous disposition. Laughter shone in her eyes, humour curved her lips, mischief often rang in her voice, but at this moment her face was serious and a suspicion of tears lingered on her lashes. In her lap lay the closely written pages of a letter, and her strong, slender fingers played idly with the golden circlet that ringed the third finger of her left hand.

It was a peaceful quiet hour for her in which she could afford to dream. Her father had left home on parochial business soon after breakfast, and her sisters had driven to the near-by town to shop, so that she was the only member of the family in the house. Still, to make seclusion doubly sure,

she had locked her door that no unexpected persons might spoil the hour with her letter and her dreams. No inquisitive eye could watch her thoughtful face, unless the robin making tiny tracks on the snowy sill was to be taken into consideration, and he apparently thought only of crumbs. Letters were not of moment in his world and tears could be counted only as dewdrops. No unwelcome questions could break the peace of meditation; even the timid tap-tap of the little beak on the window-pane passed unnoticed. Not until a big log caved in and the piled-up structure of the fire crumbled beneath it, sending a pungent puff of piny smoke into the room, did that dream-wrapt figure stir.

With action came memory of the neglected bird neighbours, and for a few busy moments crumbs were scattered and a breath of sweet, sharp, frosty air filled the room. Then Muriel Dean very deliberately mended the fire and, pushing back her chair, opened the desk, collected pen, ink, and papers, and settled down in the same comfortable position to write her answer to those many closelywritten pages. While she writes, we can, without disturbing her swiftly flying pen, read the words so closely and boldly written on those thin foreign sheets spread out before her.

"SWEETHEART:

"It is good to talk to you again after so long a silence. Of course the silences are all your fault, for it really seems to me that we gain nothing by depriving ourselves of at least weekly letters. You seem to think that one letter a month should suffice, but I tell you plainly, my lady-love, that with such a poor lonely wanderer as your devoted servant, it is hard to face such privation. Of course my heart writes you daily letters; every scene and experience, every thought and feeling, seems to shape itself into messages for you, and it is hard that they cannot be caught and imprisoned in ink and paper, unsatisfactory though such means of communication must prove at best. Still, as I promised, Merry dear, everything shall be now and always as you wish. Your word is law to me and I am truly thankful for what I have, appreciating fully the privileges you have granted me.

"Yes, truly, when I look away from my present privations and think of the riches I possess, the promise of the golden future, I count myself as the most blest of mortals. Am I not engaged to the sweetest, dearest, most beautiful woman in all the world? I ask myself, with that realisation, What else really matters? It is wonderful to think that this sheet of paper (oh! happy letter!) will

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