"There's a telegram for you, Mrs. May; just this minute come," said the hotel clerk. Angela took it, her heart beating fast, for whenever a telegram arrived--which happened seldom--she always wondered if it would tell her that, for some good reason or other, Nick was coming. But he never had come, and had never telegraphed. She opened the envelope, and glanced first at the signature: "James Morehouse." Why should he have wired? Then she read: "In flight to-day aeroplane fell into Sea off Sardinia. Aeronaut killed. Companion injured. Forgive abruptness. Wished get ahead of newspapers." For a moment she felt absolutely unconcerned, as if reading of the death of some stranger aeronaut, of Japan or South America. Then: "I hope you've not got bad news, Mrs. May?" a concerned voice was saying. She was vaguely conscious that the hotel clerk who had given her the telegram was hovering distressfully before her. She had been standing up when she began to read the message. Now she was sitting down. But her voice sounded quite calm and natural in her own ears as she answered, "No, thank you very much. A surprise--that is all. A great surprise." "You are all right?" "Oh, quite--quite!" "Nothing I can do for you?" "Nothing, thanks. I will go up to my room." * * * * * Her first thought, when she could think connectedly, was to send her unfinished letter to Nick, with a few hastily scribbled words at the end--not about the pansies. And perhaps to enclose the telegram. But she did neither. Two days passed before she sent the long diary letter, and when she did send it, nothing more had been written. She waited. She did not know what would happen. She did not even read the newspapers, though she knew there must be paragraphs, not tucked into corners, for this was, in a way, world's news. There had been "considerable interest." On the third day she was given another telegram. This time the name at the bottom was the only name that could make her heart beat: "I have seen what has happened. When will you let me come?" He did not say "Will you let me come?" but "When." She thought if she did not answer soon he would come all the same. It seemed wonderful, unbelievable, that now there was no wrong, no cruelty, no terrible unwisdom in having him near her. But there was none. Even she could see none. So she telegraphed, not the immediate summons he hoped for and she was tempted to send him, but the message of her second thought. "Come; not yet, but on the day I have a home of my own to welcome you in. Till then, let me be alone with my thoughts of you." * * * * *