Miles Trevor to his Mother.  
Dearest Mater,—A merry Christmas to you all! I can hardly believe it is nearly four years since I said good-bye and came out here, though there are times, when I am down on my luck, when it seems more like a hundred. One doesn’t have much time for moping during the day, but the evenings are the trying times, when one wonders what on earth made him such an idiot as to leave the dear old country. In moments I’m precious glad I did, for I shouldn’t have had half the chance of getting on at home. The manager went off for a holiday last week and left me in charge, and I’m thankful to say all has gone well. It was my chance of showing what I could do, and I was to make the most of it. All the same, I am sorry at times that I did not go in for mining, as I once thought of doing, you remember. My chum Gerard is going ahead at a great rate. He came out here without a penny, and has simply worked his way through the different processes in the big Aladdin Mine with which we are connected. He took the most profitable stages first, and when he had saved up a little money went in for the ones which paid least, until he had a real practical working knowledge of everything from start to finish. Of course he had had no training at home, or this would not have been necessary, but as he is a beggar to work, and a genius at making other people work too, he has risen to the post of sub-manager, and as soon as he has saved enough money is going on his own account. He has promised me a share in his gold-mine when it is discovered, and you may trust Gerard to find one if it is in existence, so you may see us home together some fine day to float our company.
 
The sooner it comes the better, or everything and everyone will be changed out of knowledge! It is beyond my imaginative powers to think of Jill as a young lady with her hair up, and at , and Betty “an old maid.” (There’s not much of the old maid about that photograph she sent out last mail!) All the fellows admire it tremendously, and it gives quite an air of beauty and fashion to my little cabin. I never thought Betty would turn out so pretty, but there’s no denying that she looks a lot older. Tell Pam not to grow up if she loves me! I want to find someone the same as when I left!
 
Glad to hear the General and Mrs Digby are still happy and satisfied with each other, and that pretty Mrs, Vanburgh’s little boy is all right again. Remember me to them, and to Cynthia Alliot when you see her. Is she well? You have not mentioned her lately.
 
Many thanks to father for the papers; you can hardly imagine how welcome they are out here, or how eagerly one looks forward to mail days. Tell that lazy Jill to write to a fellow now and then. She shall have no nuggets out of my El Dorado if she doesn’t. Yes, I’m all right! Don’t worry about me, dear. I had a bit of a a month or two ago, but Gerard nursed me almost as well as you could have done yourself. He is the best chum a man could have. Love to everybody, and most of all to yourself, dearest mater.—From your son, Miles.
 
Betty Trevor to her Brother Miles.
 
Dearest old Lad,—I missed the last mail, so I must send you an extra long to make up. Thanks so much for your last of photographs. I am glad you marked the names on the back, for really it is difficult to believe that that ferocious-looking bearded person is really you! I am glad you have promised to shave it off before you come home, for—honestly speaking—it’s not becoming! Mr Gerard looks just a shade less disreputable than yourself, but I like him because he is nice to you. You can give him my kind regards.
 
I’ve had ever such a good time since I wrote last, staying with the Rendell girls—Nan Vanburgh’s sisters, you know, whom you met at that first historic party. They are dears, and so amusing that it’s as good as a play to be with them. Elsie is married, and Lilias, the beauty, is engaged—to a clergyman, if you please. Everyone is surprised, for she has always been rather selfish and worldly, and cared only for people who were rich and grand, and Mr Ross is not like that. He is rather old, nearly forty, I think, and rather delicate, and very grave, and not a bit well off, and he thinks Lilias a miracle of goodness and sweetness, and the nice part is that she really is growing nicer, because she likes him so much, and doesn’t want him to be disappointed. They are all pleased, and Agatha and Christabel think it will be great sport to be the only girls in the house, and have no elder sister left to rule over them. The brother, Ned, is in love with the girls’ great friend, Kitty Maitland, but she snubs him, though the girls say she likes him all the time, and only does it to pay him back for the way he used to snub her as a child, and because he is so that she thinks it will do him good. He really is a good deal spoiled by all those six sisters.
 
You see everybody seems to be falling in love and getting married except me, and I shall be an old maid. I don’t like anyone, and I don’t like anyone to like me. I feel quite angry if anyone pays me the least attention, and yet I’m lonely inside. Oh, Miles, why did you go so far away, and turn into a great bearded stranger, when I wanted you at home to talk to every day? I hate Mexico, and the valley, and the mine, and “my chum Gerard”—“my chum Gerard” most of all, because I’m so jealous of him. What business had he to nurse you, I should like to know! But I pity him, if you were as cross as you used to be when you had a cold in the old days, and had to put your feet into mustard and water! How well I remember it! First the water was too hot, then it was too cold, and in the end there, was no water left in the bath, and the furniture was afloat. Jack is not half so difficile as you used to be! He has grown such a dear old thing, just as merry and as ever, but so kind, and thoughtful, and nice all round. Father is very proud of him, and he is the old General’s special pet, and half lives there when he is at home. As for Jill, she is a MINX in capital letters. So pretty and gay, and funny and charming, and naughty and nice, and and , and lazy and reckless, and altogether different from everybody else, that my poor little nose is quite out of , and I heard an impertinent young man speaking of me the other night as “Jill Trevor’s sister”! That’s what I have to, after all my lofty ambitions—Jill’s sister! How furious I should have been in the old days, but now I don’t seem to mind. Are you changed very much, old Miles? Inside, I mean, I’m not thinking of the beard. You are such a reserved person that your letters leave one in ignorance of the real you. “My chum Gerard” knows you better than I do nowadays. What an awful thought! Life seems so different now from what it did at eighteen, and all one’s ideals are changed. I had my usual yearly “token” from my friend of the fog this spring—just a newspaper posted from New York, as before, so that I know he is alive and well, but I long to know more, and sometimes it seems as if I never should. Sometimes—when I am in the blues—I feel as if that night was the only time in my life when I was really and truly of use. I suppose that’s what makes me remember it so well, and think so much of the poor man. I can remember his face still—so distinctly! Poor, poor fellow! Father says it’s more difficult than ever to make money nowadays. He may work all his life, and never be able to pay off his debts.
 
Cynthia! No; Cynthia is not well. We didn’t tell you before, because it’s horrid to write bad news, and you two were good friends. Besides, we hoped she would get better. It began six months ago with an attack of . She did not seem to throw it off, but grew thin, and coughed—a horrid cough! They took her away, and did everything they could, but so far she is no better, and I’m afraid there’s no doubt that her lungs are . Mrs Alliot is awfully anxious, and so is her father, who has now, as you know, and is home for good. They have taken her away to the sea, and she lives out of doors, and has a nurse, and everything that can possibly be got to make her better. She is very thin, but is quite bright and cheerful, and thinks about everybody in the world but herself. They hope she will get better; she must get better—she’s so young, and dear, and lovely, and everything that’s sweet. I can’t tell you what Cynthia has been to me all these years! Pray for her, Miles—pray hard! I the heavens for Cynthia&............