He wrote to Mary every other day; but though his letters were long, they told her hardly anything of himself or his occupation.

He wrote about pictures, books, music, such things as he knew must be interesting to her; but of his own struggles not a word.
'Poor fellow,' thought Mary.

'He is afraid to sadden me by telling me how hard the struggle is.' Her own letters to her betrothed were simple outpourings of girlish love, breathing that too flattering-sweet idolatry which an innocent girl gives to her first lover.

Mary wrote as if she herself were of the least possible value among created things.
With one of Mr.Hammond's earlier letters came the engagement ring; no half-hoop of brilliants or sapphires, rubies or emeralds, no gorgeous triple circlet of red, white, and green; but only a massive band of dead gold, on the inside of which was engraved this posy--'For ever.' Mary thought it the loveliest ring she had ever seen in her life.
May was half over and the last patch of snow had vanished from the crest of Helvellyn, from Eagle's Crag and Raven's Crag, and Coniston Old Man.
Spring--slow to come along these shadowy gorges--had come in real earnest now, spring that was almost summer; and Lady Maulevrier's gardens were as lovely as dreamland.

But it was an unpeopled paradise.
Mary had the grounds all to herself, except at those stated times when the Fraeulein, who was growing lazier and larger day by day in her leisurely and placid existence, took her morning and afternoon constitutional on the terrace in front of the drawing-room, or solemnly perambulated the shrubberies.
On fine days Mary lived in the garden, save when she was far afield learning the domestic arts from the cottagers.