"Ought it?" Doris seized a fresh sheet, wrote the words, and laughed— a heart-aching little laugh. "How horrid it looks!" Mrs. Winton let that pass, and began to dictate— "'Dear Mr. Maurice; I regret extremely having allowed you to indulge in hopes, during our short time together in Switzerland—'" "It wasn't short, mother. It was a lifetime." "You felt it so, perhaps. Only a few weeks, really." Doris sighed. "Well—'in Switzerland'—what next?" "As you are aware, I foresaw difficulties, and I was able only to give a conditional answer to your offer. That which I expected has come to pass. My parents are strongly opposed to anything of the kind. Their chief reason I need not specify. You will understand.'" "Must I say that? It sounds—brutal." "It would be better, if you could say plainly that you do not care for him." "But I do care! I care for him—more than I can say!" "You have to give something of a reason." "I don't see why. He knows it all. There—'you will understand.' What next?" "Will you read aloud what you have written?" Doris obeyed. "It sounds so disgustingly stiff." "I think the stiffness is necessary." Mrs. Winton carried on the last sentence—"'And I confess that, on consideration, I fully agree with them in regarding our engagement as impossible." Doris wrote the words, then flung down her pen. "Oh, it is hateful! If you only knew all that we have been to one another!" "That was very wrong. He ought to have asked your father's permission first. But the more completely you can put a stop to the whole thing, once and for all, the kinder it will be to him." "Go on, please." "In regarding our engagement as impossible.'" You have done that. "In any case, as my parents refuse their consent, all is at an end between us; and I can only beg of you to forget me as soon as possible. Yours truly, Doris Winton.'" "No—'Yours sincerely.' And I must tell him how awfully sorry I am to have let him think—" "Your letter begins with that. No more is needed. Put it up, dear, and I will have it posted." "No,—I'll post it myself." Doris sat gazing at the half-dry page, and a maid came in. "Please, 'm, you're wanted. A child has got badly hurt—and they don't know what to do." Details followed, and Mrs. Winton stood up. "Don't lose the next post," she urged in a low voice. "I'll be back soon." A pair of dreamy eyes followed her exit, then returned to the letter. Again Doris heard Jane's strident tones and shrieking foolish laughter. "It can't—can't—be!" she murmured. "I see now that it can't. I must have been mad to think it could. But, oh,—my poor, poor Dick! How will he take it?" Yielding, as often, to the moment's impulse, she seized her pen, and wrote hurriedly— "P.S.—Don't mind too much! I'm not worth it. I shall never, never forget our time together!" Then she blotted the page, folded and thrust it in, addressed and stamped the envelope, and ran at her best speed to the nearest pillar-box.