And then your letter came. Why have you gone away from Hempfield? I could not make it any plainer last night, Nort. I did not understand it fully myself, until afterward. Don't you see? I have nothing to give that is not yours for the asking. Come back, for I love you, Nort. ANTHY. This letter, which I did not know about until long afterward, was never sent, for Anthy had no way of addressing it. That evening, rereading Nort's letter, she said aloud: "What does he mean by saying Fergus is right? What has Fergus to do with it? Where _is_ Fergus?" [Illustration] CHAPTER XXV THE FLYING-MACHINE If it had not been for a surprising and amusing event which somewhat relieved the depression in the office of the _Star_ of Hempfield, the following weeks would certainly have been among the most dismal of my life. All the elasticity and interest and illusion seemed to have departed from us when Nort disappeared. Every one, except the old Captain, who was like a raging lion, was constrained and mysterious. It would have been amusing if it had not been so serious. Each of us was nursing a mystery, each was speculating, suspicious. The only one of us who seemed to get any satisfaction out of the situation was Ed Smith. I think he was unaffectedly glad that Nort was gone. It left the field clear for him, and on the Saturday night after Nort left, Ed put on his hat just as Anthy was leaving the office and quite casually walked home with her. He ran on exactly as he had always done--chat about the business, and town gossip, which always gravitated toward the personal and intimate, and, finally, if there was half an opportunity, descended to the little soft jokes and purrings of sentimentality. He followed Anthy up the steps of her home, and stood, hat in hand, still talking, and half expecting to be invited in to supper. He did observe that she was silent--but then she was never very talkative. He saw nothing in her face, nothing in her eye, that he had not seen before.