So he wrote but seldom, and then only to say: "You know what I send you." Had he known it, his best letters were those he did not send.

When in the morning mail Helen found his familiar handwriting, that seemed to stand out like the face of a friend in a crowd, she would pounce upon the letter, read it, and, assured of his love, would go on her way rejoicing.

But when in the morning there was no letter, she wondered why, and all day she wondered why.

And the next morning when again she was disappointed, her thoughts of Latimer and her doubts and speculations concerning him shut out every other interest.

He became a perplexing, insistent problem.