A railway porter caught and steadied him. “What’s the matter with you, young man? Have you been drinking? No, your breath don’t smell so.” The porter, holding his arm, guided his steps into the waiting-room. Harcourt submitted like an automaton. The porter let him down on a chair and left him. Harcourt stared at the letter that he held fast clutched in his hand. It was from Roma! He had recognized her handwriting at a glance, and was overwhelmed by the sight of it. Now he stared at it in a conflict of emotion—joy, shame, fear—that he should hear from her again, that she should write to him. But he scarcely dared to open the letter. What should he find there? Oh, what scorn and hatred—what reproaches and maledictions should he meet? And all so well deserved. At length, with a desperate resolution, as one who had been compelled to go into fire would take the plunge, he tore open the letter, and read: “Will, my own dear Will, I have only just this instant learned where you are staying. Come to me at once, my beloved. We cannot reach a mutual understanding by letters. I am just starting for Goblin Hall. Meet me there. Your own ROMA.” It was well the waiting-room was empty, that no one might witness the utter breakdown of the young man. He dropped his head upon his hands and burst into a storm of sobs and tears—the first tears that he had shed in the tragedy of his youth. “It needed but these words,” he wailed, in low tones. “It needed but these words to complete despair. Coals of fire! Coals of fire! Coals of fire!” CHAPTER VIII ROMA’S DELUSIVE JOY When gray-haired Amos Merritt burst in upon Roma Fronde on that early April day, and, with almost boyish exultation, exclaimed, “I have good news for you! Will Harcourt is found!” great throbs of joy pulsated through her frame, almost depriving her of the power of speech. She who had borne the heaviest shocks of fate without losing her self-command, was almost overcome by this sudden joy. She started to her feet, and uttered but one syllable: “Where?” “At Lone Lodge, with Mrs. Harcourt,” replied the lawyer. “How?” she panted. “In good health. Both mother and son are at present the guests of the Wynthrops. I had a letter to-day from Miss Margaret. She writes that they——” “Stop!” exclaimed Roma, recovering her self-possession with great effort. “I must write immediately to catch the mail. I will hear details later.” And she hastened to her desk and wrote the letter which we have already seen, asking Will Harcourt to meet her as soon as possible at Goblin Hall, for which she was about to start. She closed and directed the letter, and was about to leave the room to put it in the house box for the mail messenger, when Mr. Merritt arrested her steps by saying: “Give it to me. I am going directly back to my chambers, and I will post it on the way.”