By the time they were seated in the train, she was freezing in her attitude, and poor Gordon sat miserably beside her and tried to think what he had done to offend her. It was not his fault that her hand had lain near his on the rail. She had put it there herself. Perhaps she expected him to put his over it, to show her that he cared as a bridegroom should care--as he did care, in reality, if he only had the right. And perhaps she was hurt that he had stood coolly and said or done nothing. But he could not help it. Much to Gordon’s relief, the train carried a parlor-car, and it happened on this particular day to be almost deserted save for a deaf old man with a florid complexion and a gold knobbed cane who slumbered audibly at the further end from the two chairs Gordon selected. He established his companion comfortably, disposed of the baggage, and sat down, but the girl paid no heed to him. With a sad, set face, she stared out of the window, her eyes seeming to see nothing. For two hours she sat so, he making remarks occasionally, to which she made little or no reply, until he lapsed into silence, looking at her with troubled eyes. Finally, just as they neared the outskirts of Pittsburgh, he leaned softly forward and touched her coat-sleeve, to attract her attention. “Have I offended--hurt--you in any way?” he asked gently. She turned toward him, and her eyes were brimming full of tears. “No,” she said, and her lips were trembling. “No, you have been--most--kind--but--but I cannot forget _those letters_!” She ended with a sob and put up her handkerchief quickly to stifle it. “Letters?” he asked helplessly. “What letters?” “The letters you wrote me. All the letters of the last five months. I cannot forget them. I can _never_ forget them! How could you _think_ I could?” He looked at her anxiously, not knowing what to say, and yet he must say something. The time had come when some kind of an understanding, some clearing up of facts, must take place. He must go cautiously, but he must find out what was the matter. He could not see her suffer so. There must be some way to let her know that so far as he was concerned she need suffer nothing further and that he would do all in his power to set her right with her world. But letters! He had written no letters. His face lighted up with the swift certainty of one thing about which he had not dared to be sure. She still thought him the man she had intended to marry. She was not therefore troubled about that phase of the question. It was strange, almost unbelievable, but it was true that he personally was not responsible for the trouble in her eyes. What trouble she might feel when she knew all, he had yet to find out, but it was a great relief to be sure of so much. Still, something must be said. “Letters!” he repeated again stupidly, and then added with perplexed tone: “Would you mind telling me just what it was in the letters that hurt you?” She turned eyes of astonishment on him.