he looked as if
years of suffering had passed over her. Her lips were pallid, and
hollow circles under her eyes made them appear unnaturally large. He
had last left the girl in the bloom of her youth; he found her again a
woman on whom life had laid its heavy hand.

A burning flood of colour swept over her face as they met, then
receded as quickly, leaving her whiter than before. Without any waste
of words, Alan plunged abruptly into the subject.

"Miss Oliver, why have you avoided me so of late? Have I done anything
to offend you?"

"No." She spoke as if the word hurt her, her eyes persistently cast
down.

"Then what is the trouble?"

There was no answer. She gave an unvoluntary glance around as if
seeking some way of escape. There was none, for the spring was set
about with thick young firs and Alan blocked the only path.

He leaned forward and took her hands in his.

"Miss Oliver, you must tell me what the trouble is," he said firmly.

She pulled her hands away and flung them up to her face, her form
shaken by stormy sobs. In distress he put his arm about her and drew
her closer.

"Tell me, Lynde," he whispered tenderly.

She broke away from him, saying passionately, "You must not come to
Four Winds any more. You must not have anything more to do with
us--any of us. We have done you enough harm already. But I never
thought it could hurt you--oh, I am sorry, sorry!"

"Miss Oliver, I want to see that letter you received the other
evening. Oh"--as she started with surprise--"I know about it--Emily
told me. Who wrote it?"

"There was no name signed to it," she faltered.

"Just as I thought. Well, you must let me see it."

"I cannot--I burned it."

"Then tell me what was in it. You must. This matter must be cleared
up--I am not going to have our beautiful friendship spoiled by the
malice of some coward. What did that letter say?"

"It said that everybody in your congregation was talking about your
frequent visits here--that it had made a great scandal--that it was
doing you a great deal of injury and would probably end in your having
to leave Rexton."

"That would be a catastrophe indeed," said Alan drily. "Well, what
else?"

"Nothing more--at least, nothing about you. The rest was about
myself--I did not mind it--much. But I was so sorry to think that I
had done you harm. It is not too late to undo it. You must not come
here any more. Then they will forget."

"Perhaps--but I should not forget.