I lay my letter down inside my desk and go out into the garden, for I am going to put in a tiny nosegay; he will like it, I know. I can fancy how a lover sees a tender meaning in every flower. . . . the girl's face stooping over them, the slender fingers binding them together, the kiss given to every blossom, the lingering care with which she lays them down for the last time upon the written love words—they must be like spiritual tokens of her presence. So they would be to me if Paul sent me any; but men do not often think of those things, least of all he, who is so strong and proud and manly—something to hold on by and look up to. No, I do not think he has enough sentiment in him for that. After all I get but a sorry bunch—a few honey-sweet violets, a spray or two of scarlet geranium, a bit of late flowering mignonette, one or two brightly tinted leaves, and that is all.
Entering the schoolroom I meet Jane, the under housemaid, coming out—a pale, unhealthy, evil-looking young woman whom I have heartily disliked ever since she came to us, two months ago, on Milly's recommendation. I tie my flowers together with a scarlet thread, I lay them in my letter with a foolish, foolish pantomime, and then look about for sealing-wax and seal. The former is here, but the latter I cannot find. Perhaps mother has fetched it. So I seal my letter with a trumpery little beehive affair, instead of my own large one, with "Nell" cut on it in old English letters. I should like to go and post it myself, but the rain is coming down in torrents, and Simpkins (who looks as if he knew what was in my letter quite as well as I do myself) is waiting to put it in the post-bag, for it is going by the morning post, not the evening. So with a sigh I hand it over to him, and wish that I had not been in such a hurry to write it, for what am I to do with myself the rest of this long, dull, empty day?
"Come quick, to-morrow!" I say, looking out of the blurred
