"I simply had to. I have been holding it in as long as I could, and I couldn't see you feeling so, without--well, I had to." Jane spoke more rapidly now. "And, Sally, I realize the absurdity of asking you now, when I am not half through college and you are not through school, but we could wait--couldn't we?--and if you only felt as I do, it would be easier. I am--I shall have some money and I--" With an impatient wave of her hand Sally brushed all that aside. "That is of no consequence," she said,--"of no sort of consequence. But why did you do it, Jane? Oh, why did you? You have spoiled it all. I suppose we can't be good friends any more." There were tears in her eyes. "I can't see why." Jane regarded her for some while without speaking. Sally, I suppose, had nothing to say. "Does that mean," he asked at last, "that you don't care for me in the way that I want?" "I should think you would know," replied Sally gently. "And--and you can't?" Sally shook her head. "Not ever?" Sally shook her head again. Jane stood, for a minute, gazing out over the desolate marsh. Then he drew a long breath and turned. "Well," he said, smiling mirthlessly and raising his hat, "shall I--shall we go back?" Sally was angry, but I don't know what for. "No," she was decided about it; much more decided than was at all necessary. "You need not trouble to go back with me." "Oh," said Jane. He smiled again and flushed slowly. "Then, if you will excuse me, I will go to the station." So Jane was gone--or going--with head held high and a flush on his face. He did not look back. Sally, as she watched him go, had a revulsion of feeling and would have called to him. To what end? She could not change her answer. And the sound died on her lips and she stamped her foot angrily, and watched him out of sight. Then she fled to her room and wept. Why, I wonder? Sally did not know. Suddenly she had lost something out of her life. What? Sally did not know that either. It was not Jane she wept for. Whatever it was, she knew that she could never get it back again; never, never. BOOK III CHAPTER I Mrs. Ladue was sitting in her room with a letter in her lap. The letter was unfinished and it seemed likely that it might not be finished; not, at any rate, unless Mrs. Ladue brought her wandering thoughts back to it, although, to be sure, her thoughts may have had more to do with it than appeared. She was gazing absently out of the window and in her eyes there was a look both tender and sad; a look that said plainly that her thoughts were far away and that she was recalling some things--pleasant things and sad--dwelling upon them with fond recollection, no doubt. It was a pity that she had not more things which could be dwelt upon with fond recollection; but it may be that she was dwelling fondly upon the recollection of what might have been. There is much comfort to be got out of that kind of recollection even if it is not very real.