“She means nothing, doctor, dear,” she had answered, taking his hand and looking up into his troubled face.  “Her heart is all right; she’s goin’ through deep waters, bein’ away from everybody she loves—­you most of all.  Don’t worry; keep on lovin’ her, ye’ll never have cause to repent it.”

That same night Martha wrote to Jane, giving her every detail of the interview, and in due course of time handed the doctor a letter in which Jane wrote:  “He must not stop writing to me; his letters are all the comfort I have”—­a line not intended for the doctor’s eyes, but which the good soul could not keep from him, so eager was she to relieve his pain.

Jane’s letter to him in answer to his own expressing his unhappiness over her neglect was less direct, but none the less comforting to him.  “I am constantly moving about,” the letter ran, “and have much to do and cannot always answer your letters, so please do not expect them too often.  But I am always thinking of you and your kindness to dear Martha.  You do for me when you do for her.”

After this it became a settled habit between them, he writing by the weekly steamer, telling her every thought of his life, and she replying at long intervals.  In these no word of love was spoken on her side; nor was any reference made to their last interview.  But this fact did not cool the warmth of his affection nor weaken his faith.  She had told him she loved him, and with her own lips.  That was enough—­ enough from a woman like Jane.  He would lose faith when she denied it in the same way.  In the meantime she was his very breath and being.

One morning two years after Jane’s departure, while the doctor and his mother sat at breakfast, Mrs. Cavendish filling the tea-cups, the spring sunshine lighting up the snow-white cloth and polished silver, the mail arrived and two letters were laid at their respective plates, one for the doctor and the other for his mother.

As Doctor John glanced at the handwriting his face flushed, and his eyes danced with pleasure.  With eager, trembling fingers he broke the seal and ran his eyes hungrily over the contents.  It had been his habit to turn to the bottom of the last page before he read the preceding ones, so that he might see the signature and note the final words of affection or friendship, such as “Ever your friend,” or “Affectionately yours,” or simply “Your friend,” written above Jane’s name.  These were to him the thermometric readings of the warmth of her heart.

Half way down the first page—­before he had time to turn the leaf—­he caught his breath in an effort to smother a sudden outburst of joy.  Then with a supreme effort he regained his self-control and read the letter to the end. (He rarely mentioned Jane’s name to his mother, and he did not want his delight over the contents of the letter to be made the basis of comment.)

Mrs. Cavendish’s outburst over the contents of her own envelope broke the silence and relieved his tension.