"That letter, Louie, is a puzzle to us all. You referred to it in your farewell note to Ronald; and he, poor fellow, sent me to Ida to know what was meant. He had received no letter from her, and she declares she never wrote one." "How can she dare to say she did not write it? Marian, you will find the letter in the inner pocket of my hand-bag. Take it and read it for yourself." She rose to do my bidding; and then, pausing a moment, fixed a steadfast look on my face. "Tell me first, Louie," she said, "how this letter came into your possession." "It was brought to me by William Greystock. Ronald dropped it in his office on Friday morning." "It is as I suspected," said Marian, in a low voice. "That man was at the bottom of all this mischief. Well, he will do no more!" She opened the bag, found the letter, and read it attentively once or twice before she spoke again. "Yes, this is really Ida's handwriting," she admitted at last. "Yet I am bound to believe her when she solemnly declares that she never wrote to Ronald after the picnic. Louie, you will let me send this note to her?" "I don't know," I said, doubtfully. "I want Ronald to see it; I want to hear what he will say to it." "You shall see Ronald to-morrow, my dear child, and he will set all your doubts at rest. I freely confess that this note bewilders me, but I am, at any rate, quite certain that it was never received by Ronald, nor dropped by him in William Greystock's office. Louie, did not your heart tell you that William Greystock was not a good man?" At the recollection of that last interview with Greystock, and our parting words to each other, I was covered with confusion and shame. How had I suffered this man to influence me? Why did I let him give me that hateful letter? I saw now that I had done a great wrong in stealing away from home, without first seeking an explanation from Ronald. "Marian," I said, "I have not done well. But I was ill and over-excited and Ronald and I had been drifting farther and farther apart before that dreadful day came. I am calmer now, clear, although I am very, very weak." While I spoke these words the tears were fast running down my cheeks, and Marian kissed me and wept too. "It is the old story, Louie," she said, with a sigh: "And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny, and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness on the brain." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII. HEART TO HEART. NEXT day, they moved me from the bed to a large old sofa near the window, and found that I was recovering fast. The hope of happiness renewed was a better tonic than any that the doctor could give me; and, following Marian's good counsel, I resolutely put all minor worries out of my mind.