weeks, then months, slipped by, hardly noticed, ignoring all social life. When his mother or Laura broached the subject, he would say: "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' and this must be done first."
He was not unmindful of his wife during this interval, but wrote frequently, and, to guard against any danger of her being left without resources should something unforeseen befall him, he placed in Bishop Towers's hands the residue of money remaining to him in Canada, for Cassandra. He wrote her to use it as occasion required, and not to spare it, that it was hers without restriction. He sent her the names of books he wished she would read—that she should write the publishers for them. He begged her to do no more weaving for money—but only for her own amusement, and above all to trust and be happy, not to be sorrowful for this long delay, which he would cut as short as he could.
Much of his occupation he could not explain to her, and ofttimes it was hard to find matter for his letters; then he would revert to reminiscence. These were the letters she loved best and sometimes wept over, and these were the letters that often left him dreamy and sad, and sometimes made him distraught when his mother and Laura talked over their affairs, so utterly alien to his thoughts and longings.
Cassandra's replies were for the most part short, but they were sent with unfailing regularity, and always they seemed to bring with them a breath from her own mountain top—naïve—tender—absolutely trusting—often quaintly worded, and telling of the simple, innocent things of her life. He could see that she