DEAR EDNA,--With a thousand thanks for the hospitality you have shown me here, I am going back to the Mill Farm. I have known since yesterday that something was wrong, but I am glad I came back last evening to learn how wrong. There is no question of staying now, because no good could come of our attempting to talk. My thoughts are my own; no one else can have jurisdiction over them. I cannot think of one act of mine as your guest which you could disapprove. Therefore there is nothing to discuss; but the grief it is to me to have offended you, you will never know. You can tell the others that this note confesses to you that I was suddenly overwhelmed with homesickness and felt I could not stay for argument. It will be the simple truth. They will set it down to my bad manners, and let it go. We may never meet again intimately, and I want my last word to you to be heartfelt thanks for giving me the happiest experience of my life. We both know that Love will heal every hurt. I hope it isn't wrong for me to go in this way. I cannot stay. SYLVIA. Edna read the letter twice before she laid it down. She caught the reflection of her own face in the glass. More than anything else, it expressed vexation. Sylvia had crowned her unconventional behavior by the most annoying move of all. To a girl of Edna's traditions it was excessively mortifying to be obliged to own to others that her friend and guest had fled from her roof, even though they would have no suspicion that Sylvia had been driven away. In an instant she made up her mind not to destroy the comfort of the supper hour with the news, but to wait until later. Hastening out into the hall, she softly closed the door again, and proceeded to make her own preparations for the evening meal. She could hear Dunham moving about in his room, and knew that he was forbearing on Sylvia's account from the whistling obligato which usually accompanied his toilet. It would have been difficult for any average man to express irritability while discussing the appetizing dishes which Miss Lacey and Jenny had placed on that supper table, but the judge was displeased by his niece's non-appearance, and made it evident. "I hope you're not spoiling the girl, Martha," he said. "If she's ill, say so; but if she isn't, don't let there be any carrying up of trays or nonsense of that kind." Edna feared from Miss Martha's look that she was going to rise from the table and call the absent one, and she hastily interposed:-- "I assure you, Judge Trent, Sylvia is promptness itself. This is the exception that proves the rule." "It seems to me that my niece is always proving rules in that fashion," he returned, glancing at Dunham. "Of course, you are a polite hostess, Edna, and wouldn't allow a crumpled rose leaf to annoy a guest of yours." At these words Sylvia's note seemed to burn in Edna's pocket, and her cheeks grew warm.