been instilled in Laetitia when she was at boarding-school, under the soft, steady influence of a very wise and a very lovely head-mistress.
Also Sheilah's graver fears about Roddie were disappearing. Roddie was at a boarding-school where there was an equally wise head-master. 'Your boy is not a scholar,' he had written not long ago. 'I do not advise college for him. But you have reason to be proud of him. He is a hard, conscientious, and honest worker.'
How Sheilah had treasured that word 'honest'! With what joy she had shown it to Felix!
As soon as she was alone she drew up a chair close to the kitchen table and read her letters. First Laetitia's, then Roddie's, smiling fondly as she scanned the pages, unconsciously laughing out loud, now and then. No woman unconsciously laughs out loud if her heart is aching very hard; nor hums to herself over her work, as Sheilah caught herself doing often here in this kind, homely kitchen. Her life in Terry was dull, drab, monotonous, but the dullness and drabness and monotony had covered her, comforted her, and slowly healed—well, anyway, almost healed. Not entirely, she supposed, or she wouldn't have dreaded opening her third letter. It was from Cicely. Every time Cicely wrote to Sheilah now, she mentioned Roger Dallinger.
