"Come, my good friend," he said, laughing. "We're too good fellows, as you wished we should be, to pretend to any forlornness over a parting of this kind. You will sleep as sweetly and dreamlessly as if you had never seen Owen Clancy, and I will write you a letter, such as a man would write to a man, telling you of my adventures. If I don't meet any I'll bring some about--get shot by the moonlighters, save a mountain maid from drowning in a trout pool, or fall into the embrace of a black bear." "The mountain maid, you mean." "Did I? Well, your penetration passes bounds." "You may go, if you will write the letter. There must be no dime-novel stories in it, no drawing on your imagination. It shall be your task to make interesting just what you see and do." "Please add the twelve labors of Hercules." "No trifling. I'm in earnest, and put you on your mettle in regard to that letter. Unless you do your best, your friendship is all a pretence. And remember what you said about its being a letter to a man. If you begin in a conventional way, as if writing to a lady, I'll burn it without reading." "Agreed. Good-by, old fellow--beg pardon, Miss Ainsley." She laughed and said, "I like that; good-by." And she gave him a warm, soft hand, in a rather lingering clasp. When he was gone she murmured softly, "Yes, he has a chance." CHAPTER XXVI ELLA'S CRUMB OF COMFORT Ella walked up Meeting Street in a frame of mind differing widely from the complacent mood in which she sought Mrs. Willoughby's residence. The unexpected had again happened, and to her it seemed so strange, so very remarkable, that she should have met Mr. Houghton once more without the slightest intention, or even expectation, on her part, that she was perplexed and troubled. What did it mean?