It was almost two o'clock when she reached this decision but she sat down at her desk to write then and there the letter containing it, the last letter she would ever write him. And when the morning light came streaming in at the windows she still sat there, the letter unwritten. She had made many beginnings, but not an end. She must try again; she was too tired, too nervous, too hopeless and heartbroken to make another attempt that morning, but before the day was over it should be done. She threw herself down upon the bed but she could not sleep. Why had she been selected to bear this burden? What had she done that God should delight to torture her in this way? CHAPTER XXV That difficult letter was never written. In the afternoon, business at the store being rather quiet and Mrs. Atkins, the nurse, desiring an hour's leave to do an errand in the village, Mary had taken her place in the sickroom. Zoeth was improving slowly, so the doctor said, but he took very little interest in what went on, speaking but seldom, asking few questions, and seeming to be but partially sensible of his surroundings. Best not to try to rouse him, the physician said. Little by little he would gain mentally as well as physically and, by and by, there was reason to hope, would be up and about again. Probably, however, he would never be so strong as he had been before his sudden seizure, the cause of which--if there had been a definite cause--was still unknown. Just then he was asleep and Mary, sitting in the rocking-chair by the bed, was thinking, thinking, thinking. If she could only stop thinking for a little while! Uncle Zoeth, there on the bed, looked so calm and peaceful. If only she might have rest and peace again! If she might be allowed to forget! The door opened gently and Mr. Chase appeared. He beckoned to her to come out. With a glance at the patient, she tiptoed from the room into the hall. “What is it, Isaiah?” she asked. Isaiah seemed to be excited about something. “I've got a surprise for you, Mary-'Gusta,” he whispered. “There's somebody downstairs to see you.” His manner was so important and mysterious that Mary was puzzled. “Someone to see me?” she repeated. “Who is it?” Mr. Chase winked. “It's somebody you wan't expectin' to see, I bet you!” he declared. “I know I wan't. When I opened the door and see him standin' there I--” “Saw him? Who? Who is it, Isaiah? Stop that ridiculous winking this instant. Who is it?” “It's that young Crawford Smith feller from way out West, that's who 'tis. Ah, ha! I told you you'd be surprised.” She was surprised, there could be no doubt of that. For a moment she stood perfectly still. Had it not been that the hall was almost dark in the shadows of the late afternoon Isaiah would have noticed how pale she had become. But it was evident that he did not notice it, for he chuckled.