My Dear Little Friend,--You have said several times of late that you feared I had some burden on my mind because I was not as cheerful as I used to be. Well, your sharp, kindly eyes were reading a truth I was trying to conceal. I have got myself into most serious trouble. I haven't the heart to go into details over it; I need not, anyway, for my father will let it out soon enough. Every tongue in old Stafford will wag and clatter over the final finish of the town's daredevil to-morrow. And it will pain you, too, for of all my friends, young as you are, you were my soundest adviser. You used to say that I'd soon sow my wild oats, and settle down and make a man of myself. You used to say, too, that I'd finally win the girl who--but, disgraced as I am, I won't mention her name. I have lost her forever, dear Dora. She may have cared a little for me, but she won't when she knows how low I've fallen. I am going far away to try to hew out some sort of a new road. I may fail, as I have always failed, but if I do, my failure will not be added to the list of my shortcomings here in Stafford. Now, dear Dora, forgive me for speaking of something concerning you. For the last month, though I did not mention it, I have been afraid that all was not going quite well with you, either. You almost admitted it once when I caught you crying. You remember, it was the evening I met Kenneth Galt and you in the wood back of your house--the evening your mother, you remember, thought you had been out with me, and scolded us both. I saw plainly that you did not want her to know you had met him, and so I said nothing; but the thing has troubled me a great deal, I'll admit. I really know nothing seriously against the man, but he has queer, almost too modern, views in regard to love, and I think, dear Dora, that maybe you have imbibed some of them. Secret association like that cannot be best for a young girl, and so I feel that I can't go away without just this little warning. He is a wealthy man of the world, and his friendship with a sweet, pure girl like you are ought to be open and aboveboard. You are rarely beautiful, dear Dora. Your painting shows that you are a genius. You have a great future before you; don't spoil it all by becoming too much interested in this man. It may appeal to your romantic side to meet him like that, but it can't--simply _can't_ be best. Now, you will forgive your “big brother,” won't you? I may never come back; I may never even write, but I shall often think lovingly of you, dear friend. Good-bye.