I hovered over her for a moment, sick with amazed disgust. I suddenly bethought me of old Stuart, out in the greenhouse, and turned and went downstairs. As I did so, I looked up to see Mrs. Stuart moving droopingly and lamely back into her own room. § 6 Old Stuart was pitiful. I found him still inert in the greenhouse where I had first seen him. He did not move as I drew near him; he glanced at me, and then stared hard again at the flowerpots before him. “Eh, Willie,” he said, “this is a black day for all of us.” “What are you going to do?” I asked. “The missus takes on so,” he said. “I came out here.” “What do you mean to do?” “What _is_ a man to do in such a case?” “Do!” I cried, “why— Do!” “He ought to marry her,” he said. “By God, yes!” I cried. “He must do that anyhow.” “He ought to. It’s—it’s cruel. But what am _I_ to do? Suppose he won’t? Likely he won’t. What then?” He drooped with an intensified despair. “Here’s this cottage,” he said, pursuing some contracted argument. “We’ve lived here all our lives, you might say. . . . Clear out. At my age. . . . One can’t die in a slum.” I stood before him for a space, speculating what thoughts might fill the gaps between these broken words. I found his lethargy, and the dimly shaped mental attitudes his words indicated, abominable. I said abruptly, “You have her letter?” He dived into his breast-pocket, became motionless for ten seconds, then woke up again and produced her letter. He drew it clumsily from its envelope, and handed it to me silently. “Why!” he cried, looking at me for the first time, “What’s come to your chin, Willie?” “It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s a bruise;” and I opened the letter. It was written on greenish tinted fancy note-paper, and with all and more than Nettie’s usual triteness and inadequacy of expression. Her handwriting bore no traces of emotion; it was round and upright and clear as though it had been done in a writing lesson. Always her letters were like masks upon her image; they fell like curtains before the changing charm of her face; one altogether forgot the sound of her light clear voice, confronted by a perplexing stereotyped thing that had mysteriously got a hold upon one’s heart and pride. How did that letter run?— “MY DEAR MOTHER, “Do not be distressed at my going away. I have gone somewhere safe, and with some one who cares for me very much. I am sorry for your sakes, but it seems that it had to be. Love is a very difficult thing, and takes hold of one in ways one does not expect. Do not think I am ashamed about this, I glory in my love, and you must not trouble too much about me. I am very, very happy (deeply underlined). “Fondest love to Father and Puss. “Your loving “Nettie.”