“I have learned the lesson that one cannot sell one’s honesty without wronging other people, and I shall never do it again.” “This is purely sentimental”—he began. Mr. Blodgett, however, interrupted by saying, “Now don’t go to exciting the doctor, for he’s to sleep on the trip. Besides, I’ve got something in mind better than the job he’s had under you, Whitely. Come and have a smoke, and leave him to nap a bit.” They left me, and I set to puzzling over many questions: how you would greet me at My Fancy; how you would welcome Mr. Whitely; what was the meaning of his friendliness towards me; and what new kindness Mr. Blodgett had in store for me. Finally I fell asleep, to be awakened only when we reached our destination. Agnes met us at the station, and at the house Mrs. Blodgett gave me the warmest of welcomes, but not till I came downstairs before dinner did you and I meet. Your greeting was formal, yet courteous and gracious as of old, almost making me question if our last two interviews could be realities. Before the dinner was finished Mrs. Blodgett ordered me to the divan on the veranda, and sent dessert and fruit out to me. You all joined me when the moment came for coffee and cigars; but the evening was cloudy and rather breezy, and presently Mrs. Blodgett said it was too cold for her, and suggested a game of whist indoors. “You must stay out here,” she told me, “but if you feel cool be sure to use the shawl.” You turned and said to Mr. Whitely, “You will play, I hope?” and he assented so eagerly that it was all I could do to keep from laughing outright when you continued, “Agnes and Mr. Whitely will make your table, Mrs. Blodgett, so I will stay here and watch the clouds.” The whole thing was so palpably with an object that I felt at once that you wished to see me alone, to learn if I had anything more to say concerning Mr. Whitely; and as I realized this, I braced myself for the coming ordeal. For a few moments you stood watching the gathering storm, and then took a chair by the divan on which I lay. “Are you too honorable,” you began,—and though I could not see your face in the darkness, your voice told me you were excited,—“to pardon dishonorable conduct in others? For I have come to beg of you forgiveness for a wrong.” “Of me, Miss Walton?” “Last April,” you went on, “Mrs. Blodgett brought me a book and asked me to read it. A few paragraphs revealed to me that it was something written by an old friend of mine. After reading a little further, I realized for the first time that I was violating a confidence. Yet though I knew this, and struggled to close the book, I could not, but read it to the end. Can you forgive me?” “Oh, Miss Walton!” I protested. “Why ask forgiveness of me? What is your act compared to the wrong”— “Hush, Don,” you said gently, and your use of my name, so long unheard, told me in a word that the feeling of our childhood days was come again. “Tell me you forgive me!” you entreated.