for an answer the letter was gone and there was no other." As he spoke he drew from the hole a handful of moss and dead leaves, tossing them on the ground. From amongst them a yellow piece of paper dropped. Barbara lifted it and held it in her hands. She bent her head upon it, crying bitterly.
"I never got it," she said; "leaves must have fallen upon it. Oh, poor little letter! all these years I have been longing for you."
George Westcliff took her hands in his; his face was the face of a young man.
"Barbara dear, Barbara," he said, and she looked up, smiling through her tears.
"What a commonplace story after all!" she said; "I should have known there was a lost letter in it—there always is when old lovers meet and explanations follow. To think of it happening to us, though!"
He drew her, unresisting, into his arms. "What matter how commonplace it is as long as it ends happily? Barbara, my Barbara, only love me and you shall do as you like. I shall do all I can for your Women's Progress Club, and you shall spare me only what time you choose."
