forget each other! Ought I not to tell him so? Don't you think he would
find another to make him happy? Wouldn't he forgive me for telling him
he was free? Were we not too young to know each other's hearts when we
promised each other that we would love as long as we lived? Sha'n't I
write him a letter this very day and tell him all? Do you think it would
be wrong in me to do it? O Mr. Gridley, it makes me almost crazy to
think about it. Clement must be free! I cannot, cannot hold him to a
promise he does n't want to keep."

There were so many questions in this eloquent rhapsody of Susan's that
they neutralized each other, as one might say, and Master Gridley had
time for reflection. His thoughts went on something in this way:

"Pretty clear case! Guess Mr. Clement can make up his mind to it. Put it
well, did n't she? Not a word about our little Gifted! That's the
trouble. Poets! how they do bewitch these schoolgirls! And having a
chance every day, too, how could you expect her to stand it?" Then
aloud: "Susan Posey, you are a good, honest little girl as ever was. I
think you and Clement were too hasty in coming together for life before
you knew what life meant. I think if you write Clement a letter, telling
him that you cannot help fearing that you two are not perfectly adapted
to each other, on account of certain differences for which neither of you
is responsible, and that you propose that each should release the other
from the pledge given so long ago,--in that case, I say, I believe he
will think no worse of you for so doing, and may perhaps agree that it is
best for both of you to seek your happiness elsewhere than in each
other."

The book-dusting came to as abrupt a close as the reading of Lancelot.
Susan went straight to her room, dried her tears so as to write in a fair
hand, but had to stop every few lines and take a turn at the
"dust-layers," as Mrs. Clymer Ketchum's friend used to call the fountains
of sensibility. It would seem like betraying Susan's confidence to
reveal the contents of this letter, but the reader may be assured that it
was simple and sincere and very sweetly written, without the slightest
allusion to any other young man, whether of the poetical or cheaper human
varieties.

It was not long before Susan received a reply from Clement Lindsay. It
was as kind and generous and noble as she could have asked. It was
affectionate, as a very amiable brother's letter might be, a