It seemed to her little less than an insult to offer her money to console her for the cureless wound that had laid desolate her life. She said to herself that she would have to be reduced to beggary--ay, that she would starve on a crust in the street before she would touch a cent of Oran Delaney’s money. He had refused her even a word--he had thrown her his gold like a bone to a dog. Well, she would let him see that she would never touch it. She would die first, she said to herself, in her passionate pride and resentment. So the days passed by. It was little more than a week before the news of the money in the bank for Aline became disseminated far and wide, thanks to the gossiping tongue of the genial Banker Linton. The busy tongue of scandal wagged afresh over this delicious tid-bit. Opinions were divided over Aline’s course. There were some who said that she should have accepted the money, that was doubtless offered to her in reparation for wrong that had been done her. This class thought that she was very quixotic in refusing, and even very foolish. The money would have done her a vast deal of good. She might have gone away somewhere with it, and made herself a new home where the story of her mysterious absence was not known. Decidedly, she had acted foolishly in refusing, said these wiseacres. There was another class who found Aline’s action rather admirable. They argued that if the girl had suffered wrong at the hands of any one, mere money could not repair the injury done. They applauded her spirit in declining such atonement. This new element of romance added fresh fuel to the flame of scandal. It was considered that the case against Aline was quite proven now, for who would give her ten thousand dollars unless to condone an irreparable wrong? Aline was none the wiser for their praise or blame. Neither penetrated to her quiet cottage home. Day after day dragged itself wearily along, and a dreary, apathetic calm began to settle down on the girl. She had lost heart and hope and given herself up to despair. She rose from her sleepless bed one morning, and went to the window and drew back the curtain, and looked at the dreary morning sky stretching chill and cold over all the land. It was gray and sunless like her life, she thought, wearily, and dropped her eyes and sighed heavily. The down-dropped eyes suddenly fell on a bit of paper lying outside the window on the narrow sill and held down by a piece of gravel. It was addressed to herself in a strong masculine hand, and Aline’s heart beat quickly as she lifted the sash and drew it in. “At last,” she said, as she hurriedly tore it open and ran her eager eyes over the clear, bold chirography. Only a few lines, hurried and incoherent as her own had been, but strong and earnest like the writer: