"Then write and tell her so. Here is the address." She slipped a small bit of folded paper into Neville's land. "We must join the others, now," she said calmly. Annan had come up, and he and Ogilvy were noisily baiting Burleson amid shouts of laughter and a protesting roar from John. "Stop it, you wretches," said Rita amiably, entering the little group. "John, are you never going to earn not to pay any attention to this pair of infants?" "Are you going to kiss me good-bye, Rita, when the train departs?" inquired Sam, anxiously. "Certainly; I kissed Gladys good-bye--" "Before all this waiting room full of people?" persisted Sam. "_Are_ you?" "Why I'll do it now if you like, Sammy dear." "They'll take you for my sister," said Sam, disgusted. "Or your nurse; John, what _is_ that man bellowing through the megaphone?" "Our train," said Burleson, picking up the satchels. He dropped them again to shake the hands that were offered: "Good-bye, John, dear old fellow! You'll get all over this thing in a jiffy out there You'll be back in no time at all! Don't worry, and get well!" He smiled confidently and shook all their hands Rita's pretty face was pale; she let Ogilvy kiss her cheek, shook hands with Annan, and then, turning to Neville, put both hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. "Give her her chance, Kelly," she whispered ... "And it shall be rendered unto you seven-fold." "No, Rita; it never will be now." "Who knows?" "Rita! Rita!" he said under his breath, "when I am ending, she must begin.... You are right: this world needs her. Try as I might, I never could be worth what she is worth without effort. It is my life which does not matter, not hers. I will do what ought to be done. Don't be afraid. I will do it. And thank God that it is not too late." That night, seated at his desk in the studio, he looked at the calendar. It was the thirteenth day since he had heard from her; the last day but two of the fifteen days she had asked for. The day after to-morrow she would have come, or would have written him that she was renouncing him forever for his own sake. Which might it have been? He would never know now. He wrote her: "Dearest of women, Rita has been loyal to you. It was only when I explained to her for what purpose I wished your address that she wisely gave it to me. "Dearest, from the beginning of our acquaintance and afterward when it ripened into friendship and finally became love, upon you has rested the burden of decision; and I have permitted it. "Even now, as I am writing here in the studio, the burden lies heavily upon your girl's shoulders and is weighting your girl's heart. And it must not be so any longer. "I have never, perhaps, really meant to be selfish; a man in love really doesn't know what he means. But now I know what I have done; and what must be undone.