Ordinarily, Marjorie had the sensible appetite of a young country girl. To-day she ate nothing. She sipped her tea, and looked with great soulful, miserable eyes at Hugh. “And now, little girl, come, tell me.” “Oh, Hugh, not now. It is so difficult, almost impossible to tell you. I wrote that letter days and days before I posted it, and then I made up my mind all of a sudden to post it, and regretted it the moment after.” “Why?” She shook her head. “There is something wrong between you and Tom? Tell me, girlie!” She was silent for a moment. “There is—everything wrong between Tom and—and me. But it is my—my fault, not his. Oh, Hugh, it is all my fault!” “How?” “I—I don’t love him!” the girl gasped. “Eh?” Hugh started. He sat back and stared at her. “Why—you—I—I thought—” “So did I!” she cried, bursting into tears, “but I was wrong—wrong—all wrong. I didn’t understand!” Her breast was heaving, there were sobs in her throat, sobs she fought and struggled against. The dawn of understanding came to him. He believed he saw. She had fancied herself in love with Tom, and now she knew she was not—how did she know? For the simple reason that she found she was in love with someone else. Now who on earth could it be? he wondered. “Won’t you tell me all about it, dear?” “I—I can’t. Don’t ask me—I ought not to have written, I ought not to have come. I wish—I wish I had not. It is my fault, not Tom’s; he is good and kind and—and patient with me, and I know I am unkind and cross to him, and I feel ashamed of myself!” “Marjorie!” “Yes, Hugh?” She looked up. “Tell me the truth, dear,” he said gravely. “Do you realise that you are not in love with Tom because you know now that you are in love with someone else?” She did not answer in words, nodding speechlessly. “Is he a good man, dear?” “The best in the world, Hugh,” she said softly—“the finest, the dearest, and best.” “That’s bad!” Hugh thought. “But I might have guessed that she would say that, bless her little heart! Poor Tom!” He sighed. “So, after all, this beautiful muddle I have made of things goes for nothing! Do you care to tell me who he is, Marjorie?” “Don’t ask me—don’t ask me! I can’t tell you! I wish I hadn’t come. I had no right to ask you to—to listen to me. I wish I hadn’t written now!” He came across to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He bent and kissed the bright hair. “Little girl, remember always that I am your old friend and your true friend, who would help you in every way at any time. I am not of much use, I am afraid; but such as I am, I am at your service, dear, always, always! Tell me, what can I do? How can I help you?” “Nothing, nothing, you—you can’t help me, Hugh!” “Can I see Tom?” “No, oh no, you must not!” “Can I see—the other? Marjorie, does he know? Has he spoken to you—not knowing perhaps of your engagement to Tom?” She shook her head. “He—he doesn’t know anything!” Silence fell on them.