There was the suspicion of a sob in her voice. Mrs. Percy-Bartlett gazed earnestly into her friend’s eyes. “Tell me, Gertrude,” she said beseechingly, “what has happened. You are concealing something from me.” “Nothing, truly,” exclaimed Gertrude, a frank smile on her lips. “There has been absolutely nothing between Mr. Fenton and myself that you do not know about, Harriet.” “But why, my dear, do you say that you never expect to see him again? I can’t understand it.” “I hardly know how to explain it to you, Harriet. I am not in the habit of placing too much confidence in intuition and inexplicable impressions, but I feel certain that he will never come to me again--unless I send for him.” Mrs. Percy-Bartlett was silent for a time. Things seemed so fatally wrong in the world at that moment. She felt confused, discontented, wholly unfit to give comfort or advice to her unhappy friend. And yet why should she not urge her to take a step that might lead to happiness? Why should pride and precedent be permitted to stand between John Fenton and Gertrude Van Vleck when the very spirit of the age was teaching men and women to be broad-minded and reasonable, and, perhaps, more natural? Impulsively she turned to Gertrude and bent very close to her. “My dear girl, you are doing him and yourself a great wrong. You should write to him and ask him to come to you. It is the only way.” “And when he comes?” asked Gertrude in a whisper. Mrs. Percy-Bartlett bent and kissed the pale cheek of the trembling girl. “Tell him that you love him, Gertrude.” A flush overspread Gertrude’s face and her eyes flashed. She arose and looked down at her friend. “I cannot, Harriet. When you put it into words, it scares me. It is horrible to talk of such a thing. I am sorry--so sorry, that you said it.” She reseated herself and looked into the sad, brown eyes that gazed at her almost reproachfully. “I know that you meant it for the best, Harriet, but it can never be. And, now, promise me that you will never refer to this again. You know my secret. Let us go on as though I had never told you.” They were silent for a time, their cold hands clasped in a contact that expressed more than words. After a time Gertrude spoke,-- “I am so sorry to go away from you just now, Harriet. I never needed you so much before.” Mrs. Percy-Bartlett sighed wearily. “I am so tired, Gertrude. When you are gone I don’t know what I shall do. Life is such a weird and wearisome affair. I am young, and the world has given me everything that I ought to ask of it--but--but”-- She hesitated. Gertrude bent toward her. “I think I understand, my dear. I am so sorry.”