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Rh somewhere in Mayfair and Spence was at the office of The Daily Wire preparing for Monday's paper — he wheeled a small writing-desk up to the fireside and began a long letter of news and thankfulness to Helena.

He pictured the pleasant dining-room at Walktown, the Sunday night's supper, — an institution at the Vicarage after the labours of the busiest day in the week, — with a guest or two perhaps.

He knew they would be thinking of him, as he of them, and pictured the love-light in his lady's sweet, calm eyes.