As he was leaving the studio he received a letter from Maggie, and when he thought of the circumstances in which it was written, he grew genuinely alarmed, for there was no forgetting the seriousness of the letter, and she stated her reasons for the step she was taking without undue emphasis. In its severity and quiet determination the letter did not seem like her, and he suspected forgery, sisterly advice, paternal influence--a family conspiracy. There was but one thing to do. He looked through the various furniture for his hat; and with his head full of citations from the lives of artists illustrative of their conduct, he went to her. But Maggie would not see him. “Miss Brookes,” the servant said, “is in her room and cannot see you, sir.” “She will never be mine, she will never be mine,” he muttered as he passed into the town. “But why do I think she'll never be mine?” And looking at the grey sea with only a trace of the sunset left in the grey sky he asked himself if the thought that had crossed his mind were a conviction, a fore-telling or merely a passing fancy created by the difficulty of the moment. He asked himself if he had heard himself saying, “She'll never be mine” and mistaken his own voice for the voice of Fate. Over the shingle bank the sea faded, a thin illusion, dim and promiseful of peace, and as the darkness and the sea filled Frank's soul he, the lightest and most life-loving of men, was filled for once with a sense of failure of life, and as his sorrowing thoughts drifted on he remembered that he had stood with her in hearing of the rising tide, and all his pleading and passion came back to him. “What are you doing here?” It was Willy. “I don't know. Maggie has broken off her engagement; she will never speak to me again, she hopes we may never meet.” “I don't understand. When did she break off her engagement?” Frank told his story, and they walked across the green towards the studio. “Oh, you don't care. I don't believe you are listening to me.” “I am listening. You never think any one understands what is said to them if they do not instantly jump and call the stars to witness.” “I suppose I am like that--excitable--the difference between the Celt and the Saxon; and yet I don't know, your sisters are quite as excitable as I am.” “They take after their mother; I am more like my father.” “It wouldn't be a bad character for a play--a man who never would believe what you said, unless you threw up your arms and called on the stars.” “He can't be very bad if he can think about plays,” thought Willy.