"DEAREST: I could die of shame for having blundered into your family circle. I dare not even consider what they must think of me now. _You_ will know how innocently and unsuspiciously it was done--how utterly impossible it would have been for me to have voluntarily committed such an act even in the last extremity. But what _they_ will think of my appearance at your door last night, I don't know and I dare not surmise. I have done all I could; I have rid them of me, and I have written to your sister to thank her and your family for their very real kindness to the last woman in the world whom they would have willingly chosen to receive and entertain. "Dear, I didn't know I had nerves; but this experience seems to have developed them. I am perfectly well, but the country here has become distasteful to me, and I am going to town in a few minutes. I want to get away--I want to go back to my work--earn my living again--live in blessed self-respect where, as a worker, I have the right to live. "Dearest, I am sorry about not meeting you at the station and going back to town with you. But I simply cannot endure staying here after last night. I suppose it is weak and silly of me, but I feel now as though your family would never be perfectly tranquil again until I am out of their immediate vicinity. I cannot convey to you or to them how sorry and how distressed I am that this thing has occurred. "But I can, perhaps, make you understand that I love you, dearly--love you enough to give myself to you--love you enough to give you up forever. "And it is to consider what is best, what to do, that I am going away quietly somewhere by myself to think it all out once more--and to come to a final decision before the first of June. "I want to search my heart, and let God search it for any secret selfishness and unworthiness that might sway me in my choice--any overmastering love for you that might blind me. When I know myself, you shall know me. Until then I shall not write you; but sometime before the first of June--or on that day, you shall know and I shall know how I have decided wherein I may best serve you--whether by giving or withholding--whether by accepting or refusing forever all that I care for in the world--you, Louis, and the love you have given me. "VALERIE WEST." She sealed and directed this, laid it beside the other, and summoned the maid: "Have these sent at once to Ashuelyn," she said; "let Jimmy go on his bicycle. Are my things ready? Is the buck-board still there? Then I will leave a note for the Countess." And she scribbled hastily: "HÉLÈNE DEAR: I've got to go to town in a hurry on matters of importance, and so I am taking a very unceremonious leave of you and of your delightful house.