Next day, when Mrs. Rolleston announced Bluebell’s expected return, Cecil felt quite in charity with her, and resolved to make things pleasanter than they had been, though this relenting mood was nearly dissipated by her unconscious rival presuming to look miserable at the tidings of Du Meresq’s departure.

CHAPTER XV.

AN ENIGMATICAL LETTER.

’Tis Spring, bright Spring, and bluebirds sing.

I was monarch supreme in my cloudland. 
I was master of fate in that proud land;
I would not endure
That a grief without cure,
A love that could end,
Or a false hearted friend,
Should dwell for an instant in cloudland. 
—­Mackay.

Nothing but rain, pouring rain, for the next few days, washing the walls of snow down the unmetaled streets, a very slough of despond to all beasts of burden.  Once more the sight of green grass relieved the eye, weary of the one monotonous hue it had rested on for weeks, and still it rained as if determined not to stop till it had fulfilled its mission, and dissolved every sooty patch that in chilly spots still obstinately lingered.

At last the clouds parted, the sun came out, and Cecil, regardless of mud, and impatient of long confinement, started off for a gallop on “Wings.”

On her way she met the Post-office orderly with letters, who stopped and gave her one.  It isn’t such a very easy thing to read your correspondence on horseback, with the wind catching the sheets, and the sun shining through the paper, mixing the writing on the other side with the one you are reading.  Still less feasible is it in a crowded street; so, though Cecil at once recognised the handwriting of Du Meresq, it had to be consigned to the saddle-pocket till the traffic was threaded, and she had entered on a quiet corduroy road by the lake.  Then she opened it with a flattering feeling of expectation, and was half-disappointed at its calm commencement.

Bertie, with his usual dependence on her sympathy, began by telling her that he had been able to make a temporary arrangement, which had squared things for the present.  “But,” he continued, “the evil day must be no longer deferred.  I will try and find out every shilling I owe.  It will be more than I expect, I dare say, yet my commission ought to cover it, and, altogether, I shall probably save enough out of the fire to be a small capitalist in Australia.  Much as I hate it, I must cut the service, for if my debts were paid to-morrow I should have just as many in two years.  Dearest Cecil, I know you do not exactly hate me; I wish I were more worthy of the affection of such a dear, true-hearted girl.  Will you trust me, Cecil, and believe in me a little longer, even if I say no more at present?  I don’t think your father likes me; I wish now he did.  Let me see your dear handwriting soon.  I believe you have more head than any girl I know, and more heart, too; and no one can appreciate your sense and affection more than yours, ever devotedly,