“Dolph has gone away,” she said, one day; “left suddenly, this morning. He confessed to being played out, and I’m sure he looks it. He’s gone on to Buffalo, to brother Dave’s.” That night I sat down and wrote a letter; when one has done wrong, his first conscious act should be to confess. I was in a trying position; one is at such a time. Two months had elapsed, and Mr. Chance might have changed his mind and intent. Men do, occasionally; women, too. And indeed he never had asked me to marry him. True, that is the supposition when a man, with any real manhood about him, tells a woman he loves her—when he shows her marked attentions, in fact; but, as I said to Mr. Chance, I did not intend to take such things for granted. I had not changed in that respect. I had, however, become convinced that I was harsh and unjust to him. It is a blundering teacher who takes badness in a child for granted—does not wait for proof. It is an inspired teacher who ignores the bad sometimes, even after it has been proven. To think the worst, so some of the psychologists tell us, will often create the worst. Even a cook does well to make the most of her materials. Her dishes will be likely to turn out ill, if she treats the ingredients with disrespect. It would seem that I, who had in a manner made a specialty of matrimonial cookery, had something yet to learn. Randolph Chance had given me a lesson. In my letter, I said that time and thought had shown me I had done him a wrong, and that I was very sorry; that, no doubt, he had changed in some feelings, and it was, perhaps, not likely we should meet very soon; but that I wished him to know I realized my mistake, and that I was still his friend. The second day after I had written, I heard from him; our letters were penned the same night, and must have crossed each other. In his he said he had held off as long as he could, but was coming right back from Buffalo to see me. He was certain he could explain everything; he had nothing to hide, and he hoped I would let him tell me what was in his heart; that for months he had known but one real wish, one real aspiration—to win me for his wife. He begged me to let him begin anew, and make an effort to attain this great end.