head to my heart, or my sterner to my softer self;—"how could you ever dream that he would write to you? What grounds have you for such a hope—or that he will see you, or give himself any trouble about you—or even think of you again?
"What grounds,—" and then Hope set before me that last, short interview and repeated the words I had so faithfully treasured in my memory.
"Well, and what was there in that?. . .Who ever hung his hopes upon so frail a twig? What was there in those words that any common acquaintance might not say to another? Of course, it was possible you might meet again; he might have said so if you had been going to New Zealand; but that did not imply any intention of seeing you—and then, as to the question that followed, any one might ask that; and how did you answer?—Merely with a stupid, common place reply, such as you would have given to Master Murray, or any one else you had been on tolerably civil terms with."
"But then," persisted Hope, "the tone and manner in which he spoke."
"Oh, that is nonsense! he always speaks
