“Why didn’t she answer my last letter?” he continued. “Ah, that was the best letter I ever wrote her. I put my soul in every word. I didn’t believe the woman lived who could read such confessions and such worship without reply; Surely she has a heart!” When he went to the post-office next day he got a letter forwarded from Hambright by the Preacher. It was postmarked Narragansett Pier, and addressed in a bold masculine hand he had never seen before. He tore it open, and inside found his last letter to Sallie Worth, returned with the seal unbroken. He sprang to his feet with flashing eyes, trembling from head to foot. “Ah! they did not dare to let her receive another of my letters! So a clerk returns it unopened,” he cried. And a great lump rose in his throat as he thought of the scenes of the past two weeks. The old fever and the old longing came rushing over his prostrate soul now in resistless torrents: “How dare a strange hand touch a message to her! I could strangle him. We will see now who wins the fight.” He set his lips with determination, packed his valise, and took the train for home without a word of farewell to the companions of his revels. When he reached Hambright he felt sure of a letter from her. A strange joy filled his heart. “I have either got a letter or she’s writing one to me this minute!” he exclaimed. He went to the post-office in a state of exhilaration. The letter was not there. But it did not depress him. “It is on the way,” he quickly said. For two days, he remained in that condition of tense nervous excitement and expectation, and on the following day he opened his box and found his letter. “I knew it!” he said with a thrill of joy that was half awe at the remarkable confirmation he had received of their sympathy. He hurried to his office and read the big precious message. How its words burned into his soul! Every line seemed alive with her spirit. How beautiful the sight of her handwriting! He kissed it again and again. He read with bated breath. The address was double expressive, because it contained the first words of abandoned tenderness with which she had ever written to him, except in the concealed message dotted in the note that broke their earlier correspondence. “My Precious Darling:--I have gone through deep waters within the last three weeks. I became so depressed and hungry to see you, I felt some awful calamity was hanging over you and over me, and that it was my fault. I could scarcely eat or sleep. “I felt I should go mad if I did not speak and so I told Mama. She sympathised tenderly with me but insisted I should not write. She is so feeble I could not cross her. But Oh! the agony of it! Sometimes I saw you drowning and stretching out your hands to me for help. “Sometimes in my dreams I saw you fighting against overwhelming odds with strong brutal men, whose faces were full of hate, and I could not reach you.