In one paragraph Winifred had written an explanation of her motives, and she prayed for an answer from the depths of her heart. It read-- Dear Friend:--These things I would have you stop and consider, not lightly, because of your love for me. I am not of your station in life--and I would not drag you down to mine. Just imagine the harm that would come of it--a blight on your life, that you could never live down. Oh, my dearest friend on earth, how would either of us regard the other once we were confronted by the mirror of public opinion? So, with eyes open wide to the consequences of wedlock with you, I am about to consecrate my life to a plain, simple man, without riches or deep learning--one of my own station in life, who will never have cause to rue the day he takes me to wed. It is all for the best, dear friend. Just allow your big, generous heart to feel that my intentions are for your good, and also my own. There have been precious moments in our lives which I shall never forget--nor shall I deny, even to the man I shall marry--that you were the first to inspire my heart with a knowledge of what a sacred emotion love should be. And that was the letter in full, all save the signature--one word--Winifred. Had Villard opened it upon its arrival, his greatness of heart would have asserted itself forthwith. But gaining first information from a newspaper clipping was quite another matter. It rankled in his bosom. Big, manly fellow that he was, ordinarily he would have stopped to think how innocently such things could happen. Winifred's letter had been mailed two days before the article appeared, but it had been delayed in transit. On time, it would have given Villard opportunity to support his own cause, but fate plays in all games, either of heart or of brain. To a girl of her mould wealth had no standing when measured by love. Time flew by as the wedding day drew near. But there came no word from Villard. Henry Updyke looked in on Winifred's little home one day and found the girl crying. Few women are they who may heighten their beauty through tears, but Winifred's face was that of a grieving Madonna. She ran to him at once, as a child to its father and wound her arms about his neck. And there she remained as she sobbed out her story. "But you love this young man, don't you?" soothed the big fellow whose face looked drawn and old, as his heart went out to the girl. "I don't know," sobbed Winifred. "Do you love Drury Villard?" "Oh, fondly, sir, but he is far above me! I would ruin his life--and after all his kindness to my father and myself, I can't bear to think of it."