"It's the old story," he thought, with a shade of irritation. "Letters
cost effort, and she is not equal to effort, or thinks she is not."
If he could have seen Madge at that moment riding like the wind on a
spirited horse he would have been more astonished than by any of the
wonders of the old world.
To Madge his letters were a source of mingled pain and pleasure, but
the former predominated. In every line they breathed an affection
which could never satisfy. Coldness or indifference could not have
so assured her that her love was hopeless; and when she sat down to
reply, the language of her heart was so unlike that which she must
write as to make her feel almost guilty of deliberate deception.
Correspondence made him too vividly present, and she was learning that
she had the power, not of forgetting him, but of so occupying her
mind with tasks for his sake as to attain serenity. The days were
made short by efforts of which he deemed her incapable, and weariness
brought rest at night. But when she sat down with her pen, confronting
him and not what she sought to do for him, her heart sank. He was too
near and dear, yet too remote, even for hope.
This emotion is, however, the most hardy of plants, and although she
had often assured herself that she had never entertained it or had any
reason to do so, almost before she was aware she found it growing in
her heart.
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