"’"Not so fast, my fine fellow! You’ve not returned the letters, yet. D’you think I’d let you keep them, you low dog, to use against her fair name, for a price?" "’I had forgotten the letters. I turned to Idea, and it was as if I had not seen her before, so clear her image stood out, now. She was clad in some flowery stuff ("dimity," she had once told me ’twas) with a sash about her waist, and on the sash a pocket hung suspended by a strap. ’Twas to hold her handkerchief, but her handkerchief had to hold her tears now—and the pocket hung empty. I went to her and held out the letters. She would not take them. "’"Here are your letters," I said. "’Still she would not touch them. "’Her father cursed us both. I felt my self-control slipping from me. If I let it go to lay my hand upon the man—God help him—and me. But I could not escape until Idea had the letters. Again, she would not take them. With a quick movement I thrust them in her pocket. She did not seem to understand what I was doing. She thought I was trying to grasp her hand, I think, for she flung it out to me imploringly. But I only dimly saw that as I wheeled about, and so, off and away. That day I left the place. Later, I learned, the Squire and Idea went too. But before they did so he caused his man of law to follow me, again demanding the letters. "’"The letters have already been returned," was all I could say. "She has them. I gave them back. When she would not take them, I thrust them in her pocket." "’With that the lawyer had, perforce, to be content. At least he has not troubled me since. So I close this book. A closed book, too, the story of my love. A book I know I must never open if ever I am to be at peace with life. For I will say it once and so be done, Idea is my mate—the one woman in the world whom only I love, or ever shall. I have lost her, but the memory of her I must keep until I die—my passionate, headstrong, struggling, loving child. May God be with her, true and loyal little heart, wherever she may go.’" Dr. Ballard looked up, as he closed down the cover. "You see, he _did_ give back the letters," he said. Madam Crewe clutched the arms of her chair, sitting forward, gazing fixedly into space. When she spoke it was as if she spoke in a dream, filling out the bailiff’s tale.