"Your letter has somewhat surprised me, and yet I cannot say I feel that I don't deserve it. Since you have been away I have been doing a good deal of thinking. Of course you and I haven't hit it off very well together, and, as I can see no point where you have failed me, I realise that it must be my fault and that I have failed you. "I wish you had talked to me about it, instead of going away, and yet, even as I write the words, I see how impossible it would have been, for we haven't been in the habit of talking things over since the first year we were married. Gradually the wall of silence and reserve has grown up between us, but while you, with the quicker insight of a woman, have seen it growing, I haven't realised it until it was completed. "Your offering me my freedom has made me wonder what my life would be without you. No one has ever filled your place to me, or ever will. I may have seemed careless, thoughtless--indeed, I have been both, and constantly, but always in the background has been the knowledge that you were there--that I could depend upon you. [Sidenote: The Husband's Point of View] "It may seem like a trite and commonplace thing to say, but upon my word and honour, Edith, I haven't meant to fail you, as I see I have in a thousand ways. I'm sorry, deeply sorry, but I know that the words will not mean much to you. "Since I first saw you, there's never been any woman in the world for me but you, and there never will be, even though you should cast me off as I deserve. If you can make up your mind to come back to me and let me try again, I'll do my best to make you happy--to consider you instead of myself. "Men are selfish brutes at the best, and I don't claim to be any better than the average, but all I'm asking for now is a chance to make myself worthy of you--to be the sort of husband a woman like you should have. "Please let me hear from you very soon. "Your loving husband, "W. G. L." Alden read it again, though he did not need to--he had understood every word of it the first time. Then he folded it, slowly and precisely, and put it into the torn envelope. He tapped on the arm of the chair for a moment with the edge of the envelope, then, mechanically, put it into his pocket. [Sidenote: Effect upon Alden] A robin, in a maple tree beyond him, piped his few notes with unbearable intensity. Discordant chirps assailed his ears from the lattice where the climbing rose put forth its few last blooms. Swaying giddily in a crazy pattern upon the white floor of the veranda, was the shadow of the rose, the plaything of every passing wind. He remembered the moonlight night which might have been either yesterday or in some previous life, as far as his confused perceptions went, when Edith had stood with the rose in her hand, and the clear, sharply-defined shadow of it had been silhouetted at her feet.