“I never begged anybody to write me yet,” he growled, defiantly. “And I am not beginning now. You and she can understand that.” “Yes--yes, of course I understand. I am awfully glad I came here this afternoon. I was almost afraid to, but I am glad I did. May I come again pretty soon?” He looked at her intently. “Why do you want to come?” he asked. “I haven’t said that I have changed my mind about anything, have I?” Then, before she could reply, he added, brusquely, “Oh, well, come if you want to. I don’t know who would be liable to stop you. Far as I can see you generally do what you set out to.” She was content with that, and more than content with his reference to Esther. That evening, after she had locked the post office, she wrote her niece a long letter. She told of the loss of the lawsuit. “Very likely you may have heard of it before you receive this, but I have just come from your uncle’s house and the sight of him, alone there, sitting in that library, with nobody to speak to, knowing as he does that everybody is talking about him, some of them crowing over him, facing the fact that he must give up about everything he’s got in the world--well, I never wanted to cry over a human creature more. I didn’t do it, of course. He would have pushed me outdoors if I had. I couldn’t scarcely tell him how sorry I felt. He is as proud as he ever was and he doesn’t ask sympathy of anybody. He needs it though. You know how sure he was of winning that suit. For Elisha Cook to beat him is the hardest blow that could have been struck. And not a word of complaint. The one thing he seemed to want me and everybody else to understand was that every dollar damages would be paid cash down.” Then she wrote of his questions concerning Esther’s well being. “Write him, dearie,” she urged. “Write him and keep on writing, no matter whether he answers your letters or not. And, oh, if you can, try to comfort him. Make him see that you love him just as much as you ever did. That will help him now more than anything else in the world, I do believe. He is so _all_ alone.” The next time she visited the big house she took with her all of Esther’s letters, those written from Boston as well as the later arrivals from Paris. She said little about them. “I brought ’em along,” she said, “thinkin’ you might like to look ’em over sometime. They are real interestin’. She writes a good letter and what she says about tryin’ to make herself understand amongst all those French people is very funny.” He did not answer, nor did he refer to the letters in their conversation. He did not refuse them, however, so she left them on the table when she went away.