The lamp was newly lighted at one end of the hall, and was burning dimly. As she passed up the stairs, her eye fell on some small cards on the dark table near the door. With a sudden misgiving, she went back, and picking them up, went over to the lamp to read them. They were three cards of "Mr. James Andrews," with p.p.c. in the corner. I don't know exactly what Missy thought or felt when she read them. She stood a few minutes in a stupid sort of state. Then, the drive had been a fable, and the hand of fate was against her. The precious opportunity was lost, while she was wandering aimlessly along the beach, saying over and over to herself, the words that now never would be spoken. She had tossed away from her her one chance, as she had tossed pebbles into the water while she walked that afternoon. She had felt so secure, she had been so calm. Now all was over, and the days and nights that had been given to this meeting were days and nights that mocked her when she thought of them. How she had been cheated! She realized fully that the chance was gone. She knew that months of separation, just as they were situated, would have been enough to make a renewal of friendship impossible, and here were years coming in between them. No, the only moment that she could have spoken would have been while the recollection of what he had said to her the other day upon the lawn, was fresh in both their minds. Perhaps, already, it was too late to revive any feeling for her; but at least, she could have tried. She hadn't any pride left. At least, she thought she hadn't, till, in her own room, she found herself writing to him. Then, when she saw the thing in black and white, she found she had still a little pride, or perhaps, only a sense of decency. Here was a man who hadn't talked to her about love, who hadn't said anything that anybody mightn't have said about an ordinary friendship. She knew quite well that he meant more, but he hadn't said more, and by that she must abide. So she tore her letter up; ah, the misery of it all. She bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, and went stonily down to tea when the bell rang. When the tea bell rings, if the death-knell of your happiness hasn't done tolling, you hear it, more's the marvel. The monotonies of Mrs. Smatter and the asperities of Miss Varian for once roused little opposition. Missy had a fevered sense of oppression from their presence, but she was too full of other thoughts to heed them. After tea there was something to be done for her mother, who was ill from the strain of the afternoon's visitors, and two or three persons on business had to be attended to. She felt as if she had begun a dreadful round of heartless work that would last all her life.