tements at the same time. It was good to see the dear
writing again, and I was in the mood when I badly needed some words of
comfort. I tore open the envelope, hoping to find them inside.

This is the letter:--

"Evelyn, Dear,--How is it faring with you, I wonder, in your grey London
world, while I laze beneath Italian skies? It is a rest to know that
you understand my silence, and don't need to be reminded that it does
not mean forgetfulness. That big heart of yours can be very patient and
forbearing. I have good cause to know that, but I also know that no one
in the world more keenly enjoys a word of love and appreciation, so
here's a confession for you, dear. Read it, lock it up in your heart,
and never, never refer to it in words! This is it, then. During these
last weeks, when I have been fighting the old battle of the last six
years, I have discovered to my surprise, and--let me confess it--dismay,
that my point of view has strangely altered. I still consider that I
have been the victim of one of the cruellest deceptions which a woman
could endure; I still believe that in that first ghastly hour of
discovery, flight was justified and natural, but--Well, Evelyn, dear! I
have been living for months in very close intimacy with a little girl
who thinks no evil, and is always ready to find a good explanation for
what may on the surface appear to be unkind, and it has had its effect.

"I keep asking myself, `In my place, what would Evelyn have done?' and
the answer disturbs my sleep. You are impulsive, my dear, and your
temper is not beyond reproach. If you loved deeply you would be
exacting, and would fiercely resent deceit. You would have run away
even more impetuously than I did myself, but--but--you would not have
kept up your resentment for six long years, or refused the offender a
right to speak! If I know my Evelyn, before a month had passed her
heart would have softened, and she would be turning special pleader in
his defence, racking her brain for extenuating explanations. And if
there had been none--I can imagine you, Evelyn, shouldering your burden
with a set, gallant little face, going back to your husband, and saying
to yourself, `Am I a coward to be daunted by the failure of one little
month? He married me for my money--very well, he shall have his price!
I will give it to him, freely and willingly, but I will give him other
things too--companionship, interest, sympathy, so that in time to