“Miss Walton,” I said, “Mr. Whitely is not a man to make you happy, and in hopes of saving you from him I spoke as I did. I had no right, as none can know better than myself, but perhaps you will forgive the impertinence when I say that my motive was only to save you from future misery.” “Why should I not be happy in marrying Mr. Whitely?” “Because you are deceiving yourself about him.” “In what respect?” “His character is other than you think it.” “Be more specific.” “That I cannot be.” “Why not?” “It would be dishonorable in me.” “Not more so than to stop where you have.” “I cannot say more.” “I do not recognize your right to be silent. You have said too much or too little.” “Maizie,” called Mrs. Blodgett from the hall, “come quickly, for we are very late.” “I shall insist, at some future time, upon your speaking more clearly, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, as a queen would speak, and picking up your wrap, without a parting word, you left me standing in the middle of the drawing-room. I came home through the cold, and have sat here regretting my foolishness and groping for the right course to pursue. Oh, my darling, if I but had the right, I would gladly tell you the whole story of the miserable deception, even though I disgraced myself in your eyes. If it were merely my own honor which was at stake, I should not hesitate for an instant, but would sacrifice it to save you, though self-respect seems now the only thing left me. But try as I may to prove to myself that I have the right, I cannot, for I feel that more than my own honor is concerned. I have taken Mr. Whitely’s money, and cannot return it to him. To break faith would be worse than despicable. I shall speak to you of my employer’s hardness, and beg you to ask Mr. Blodgett if he would give Agnes to Mr. Whitely or advise you to marry him. My heart yearns to aid you in your peril, but I can think of nothing more that I can do. May God do what I cannot, my dearest. Good-night. XXIV _March 15._ I was so miserable with my cough to-day that I could not summon the energy to drag myself to Mr. Blodgett’s office, and did not leave my room till after eight, when your note came. “Miss Walton,” it read, “feels that she has the right to request Dr. Hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation uncompleted last night.” I understood the implied command, and thought that I owed what you claimed, while feeling that in obeying I could for this once forego my scruple of entering your door. The footman showed me into the library, and left me there. It was the first time I had seen it since my thirteenth year, and I cannot tell you the moment’s surprise and joy I felt on finding it absolutely unchanged. Even the books were arranged as formerly, and my eye searched and found, as quickly as of yore, all the old volumes full of plates which had once given us such horror and delight. For the instant I forgot my physical suffering and the coming ordeal.