Jack was the first to leave the church, as he did not care to meet any of the people, for the remembrance of what he had done that morning was beginning to make him ashamed, and if he had seen Paul he would unquestionably have apologized to him. But Paul was not there and Jack returned to the hotel, where no one spoke to or noticed him. He had his lunch at the second table, and then went out on the seaward side of the house, and, seating himself at a distance from the few who were on that piazza, began to think whether he should take the evening boat or wait till morning. “I’ll wait,” he said, “and maybe I can see Paul. Any way I’ll add a P. S. to my letter to Elithe and tell her what a brute I’ve been and that I heard her sing.” Going to the reading room he added a P. S., telling what he had thought and felt and done during the day,—saying he was sorry for insulting Paul and wished she would tell him so. He would like to see Clarice and possibly he might. If not, he would leave her present at the hotel, with directions for it to be sent, and he wished Elithe to tell her that he had refunded nearly all her money, and she would find things straight in Denver, if she stopped there on her wedding trip, as she said she intended doing. “And now, my darling,” he wrote in conclusion, “it is good-bye forever. It is not likely we shall meet again, nor will you care to see me after what I have done. But I hope you will think of me sometimes as one who, for the brief period he knew you and your family, experienced more real happiness and received more real kindness than he ever received or experienced before in his life.—JACK PERCY, _alias_ JOHN PENNINGTON.” Why he did not direct the letter this time no one will ever know. He didn’t direct it, but dropped it into his satchel and went again to his seat on the seaward side of the hotel, sitting there alone and sleeping most of the time until the day was waning, when he roused up and started, probably for his mother’s cottage, and taking the road past Miss Hansford’s with a hope of getting a glimpse of Elithe. When Paul saw him entering the wood he judged from his gait and general appearance that he was partially intoxicated, but this might not have been true. He was always unsteady in his walk for a few days after a debauch such as he had had in Chicago, and if he tottered it was probably more from weakness and fatigue than from drink, and this prompted him to stop by the way and rest. Why he chose the clump of oaks, where he had dreamed of lying dead, no one can tell. He did choose it, and here they found him dying, with all his sins upon his head and all his good deeds and intentions, too, of which the pitiful Father took note and met as they deserved. Poor Jack! CHAPTER XXIX. ELITHE’S INTERVIEW WITH CLARICE.