Taffy kissed her and went up to his room.  He found his books laid out on the little table there.

4.

     “TREDINNIS, February 13, 18—.”

“MY DEAR TAFFY,—­I have a valentine for you, if you care to accept it; but I don’t suppose you will, and indeed I hope in my heart that you will not.  But I must offer it.  Your father’s living is vacant, and my trustees (that is to say, Sir Harry; for the other, a second cousin of mine who lives in London, never interferes) can put in someone as a stop-gap, thus allowing me to present you to it when the time comes, if you have any thought of Holy Orders.  You will understand exactly why I offer it; and also, I hope, you will know that I think it wholly unworthy of you.  But turn it over in your mind and give me your answer.”

“George and I are to be married at the end of April.  May is an unlucky month.  It shall be a week—­even a fortnight—­earlier, if that fits in with your vacation, and you care to come.  See how obliging I am!  I yield to you what I have refused to Sir Harry.  We shall try to persuade the Bishop to come and open the church on the same day.”

     “Always your friend,”
     “HONORIA.”

5.

     “TREDINNIS, February 21. 18—.”

“My Dear Taffy,—­No, I am not offended in the least; but very glad.  I do not think you are fitted for the priesthood; but my doubts have nothing to do with your doubts, which I don’t understand, though you tried to explain them so carefully.  You will come through them, I expect.  I don’t know that I have any reasons that could be put on paper:  only, somehow, I cannot see you in a black coat and clerical hat.”

“You complain that I never write about George.  You don’t deserve to hear, since you refuse to come to our wedding.  But would you talk, if you happened to be in love?  There, I have told you more than ever I told George, whose conceit has to be kept down.  Let this console you.”

“Our new parson, when he comes, is to lodge down in Innis Village.  Your mother—­but no doubt she has told you—­stays in the Parsonage while she pleases.  She and your grandmother are both well.  I see her every day:  I have so much to learn, and she is so wise.  Her beautiful eyes—­but oh, Taffy, it must be terrible to be a widow!  She smiles and is always cheerful; but the look in them!  How can I describe it?  When I find her alone with her lace-work, or sometimes (but it is not often) with her hands in her lap, she seems to come out of her silence with an effort, as others withdraw themselves from talk.  I wonder if she does talk in those silences of hers.  Another thing, it is only a few weeks now since she put on a widow’s cap, and yet I cannot remember her—­can scarcely picture her—­without it.  I am sure that if I happened to call one day when she had laid it aside, I should begin to talk quite as if we were strangers.”

     “Believe me, yours sincerely,”
     “HONORIA.”