When Tom read this letter his first impulse was that he would accept the invitation. Then he began to waver. He had not a surplus of money to spend, and it might be better to stay at home and grind, as he called his office work. Then, too, he knew that in New York there was a little, dark-haired, brown-faced girl, whom he cared more to see than a dozen Reginalds. This was Rena, the pet name he had given her, although she was christened Irene. He had known her since she was three years old and her mother had died suddenly at his home where she was visiting his mother, who was her cousin. There was no one to care for her, as her father was dead, and she had stayed on, the darling of the household, the object of his boyish admiration and then of his love, as both grew older and the young girl seemed to know exactly what chords to touch to make him her slave. At fifteen she had fallen heir to ten or fifteen thousand dollars from a bachelor uncle, and as Tom’s mother died about that time Rena had gone to live with her Aunt Mary in New York, who, not caring for her when she was a baby, now found that she wanted just such a bright young girl to add éclat to her surroundings and keep her from growing old too fast. Before she left for New York, Tom’s love for her got the better of his judgment and he asked her to be his wife when she was older. There was a look almost of horror in Rena’s gray eyes as she listened, and when he finished she began impetuously, “Tom Giles, are you crazy, making love to me, a child of fifteen, and you twenty-two and the same as my brother? I’d as soon marry my brother, if I had one. It is horrible, and almost makes me hate you. I shall hate you, if you ever say a word of this kind again.” She burst into a fit of weeping so violent that it frightened Tom, who tried to make amends for his blunder by saying that he was a fool and a brute and everything bad and never would speak to her of love again, if she would forgive him. That was six years ago, and the episode had seemingly passed from Rena’s memory, or if she thought of it, it was as of something which would never be repeated, for Tom was one who kept his word. And so she went on teasing him with her pretty ways and blandishments and her open show of affection for and trust in him. He was the dearest old Tom, in whom she confided all her secrets and troubles, confident that he would never fail her, and all the while his great love for her was eating his heart out, and he sometimes felt that in spite of his word he must speak again. “But I’ll wait a while longer,” he thought, “wait till I see some sign that she wants me to speak. She likes me now better than any one in the world, she says, and by and by, who knows?”