Isolde put down a box of papers she had been sorting over. Her conscience had troubled her not a little at letting Sidney go off alone among strangers, even though they were relatives, and now Trude's doubts sharpened the pricks. "Forced? I didn't notice it. It was short, of course, but probably she is having too good a time to write a longer letter. Anyway, Trude, she's there safe, and we're almost packed and our tickets are bought--it isn't going to do anyone a bit of good, now, to upset all our plans and bring Sid home. That's the way I look at it. And she would have been perfectly wretched here with the League Convention filling the house. It's dreadful to contemplate." "I can't bear to think of Sid going out on boats with a harum-scarum boy--" Trude groaned. "I don't feel half as concerned over the boats as I do wondering if living there in luxury may not spoil her for her own poor home--make her dissatisfied. She is probably meeting all the wealthy summer people--there are a lot on the Cape, you know." Trude was still studying the letter as though to find something between the written lines. "She wants me to write every day. That sounds a little homesicky. Well, I will, bless the kid's heart--no matter how rushed I am. And I will warn her in every letter to be careful around the boats. And not to get her head turned by our relatives' high estate, either. Isn't it funny, Issy, that we never knew they were wealthy--until now? Not that it would have made a bit of difference with Mother or Dad," she finished, defensively. Isolde, her conscience quieted for the hundreth time, turned her attention to her box. She lifted out a small packet of letters tied together and handed them to Trude. "These are yours." One slipped from the packet and fell to the floor between the two girls. Trude picked it up quickly, a deep crimson sweeping her face. "Why, it's one of _those letters_--" exclaimed Isolde, accusingly. Trude nodded, guiltily. "I know it. I--I couldn't bear to destroy them all." "Trude, dear, you don't care anything about that man--now?" Trude forced a light laugh but her eyes avoided Isolde's searching glance. "Why, no--at least not in _that_ way. If you like things in a person very much you just have to keep on liking them no matter what happens. And, Issy, it wasn't his fault that I--I imagined--he cared--for me--" Her voice broke. Isolde gave a quick little cry. "Trude, you _do_ care! And he isn't worth the tiniest heartache. He _must_ have led you on to think things. And all the time he was playing with you. It makes me _furious_! You're such an old peach." The "old peach" made no answer. There flashed across her mind all that Isolde had had to say before about this man; every fibre of her being shrank from a repetition that would bring pain as well as humiliation. She straightened.