“Your family would laugh at me,” he wrote; “I couldn't show them a dollar. And although my father has done a great deal for me he wouldn't do this. I couldn't expect him to. Mother might help, she is like you, but I could not very well live between two women, could I? The only hope is California for a couple of years. You know how much I want to stay with you, how hard this is to write, when our engagement, everything, is so new and wonderful. But it would only be harder later. If I had seen you this afternoon I would never have left you. I am going to-morrow night. This will come to you in the morning, and I will be home if you send me a message. I would like to see you again before I go away in order to come back to you forever. I would like to hear you say again that you love me. Sometimes I think it never really happened. If I don't see you again before I leave, remember I shall never change, I shall love you always and not forget the least thing you said. I wish now I had studied so that I could write better. Remember that I belong to you, when you want me I will come to you if it's around the world, I would come to you if I were dead I think. Good-bye, dear, dear Eliza, until tomorrow anyhow, and that's a long while to be without seeing you or hearing your voice.” At the announcement of his agreement to go West, the attitude of his father had changed greatly; his hand continually sought Anthony's shoulder; he consulted gravely, as it were with an equal, with regard to trains, precautions, new climates. His mother busied herself over his clothes, her rare speech brusque and hurried. To Anthony she seemed suddenly old, _grey_; her hands trembled, and necessary stitches were uneven. He was aware that the mail for Hydrangea House was collected before noon, and he sat expectantly in the room overlooking the street. It was dark and cool, there were creamy tea roses in the Canton jar now, while in the street it was hot and bright. A sere engraving of Joseph Bonaparte in regal robes gazed serenely from the wall. The hour for lunch arrived without any message from Eliza. Throughout the afternoon he dropped his pressing affairs find descended to the street... nothing. His heart grew heavy with doubts, with fears--his letter had been intercepted; or, if Eliza had received it, her answer had been diverted. Perhaps she had at last realized that he was unfit for her love. The impulse almost mastered him to go once more to Hydrangea House, but pride prevented; his unhappiness hardened, grew bitter, suspicious. Then he again read her letter, and its patent sincerity swept away all doubt; Eliza was unwavering; if not now he would find her at the end of two years, unchanged, warm, beautiful.