ich girl, and that makes a difference--now. When she was just a
young girl of eighteen, or such a matter, and I only twenty or
twenty-one, we met so naturally, and it all came out so beautifully!
But we are older now, Aunt Molly," he said sadly, "and it's
different."

"Yes," admitted Mrs. Brownwell, "it is different now--you are right
about it."

"Yes," he continued, repeating a patter which he had said to himself a
thousand times. "Yes,--and then I can't say I'm sorry--for I'm not.
I'd do it again. And I know how Mr. Barclay feels; he didn't leave me
in any doubt about that," smiled the boy, "when I left his office that
morning after telling him what I was going to do. So," he sighed and
smiled in rather hopeless good humour, "I can't see my way out. Can
you?"

Molly Brownwell leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes for a
minute, and then shook her head, and said, "No, Neal, not now; but
there is a way--somehow--I am sure of that."

He laughed for want of any words to express his hopelessness, and the
two--the youth in despair, and the woman full of hope--sat in
silence.

"Neal," she asked finally, "what do you put in those letters? Why do
you write them at all?"

The young man with his eyes upon the floor began, "Well--they're just
letters, Aunt Molly--just letters--such as I used to write
before--don't you know." His voice was dull and passionless, and he
went on: "I can't tell you more about them. They're just letters." He
drew in a quick long breath and exclaimed: "Oh, you know what they
are--I want to talk to some one and I'm going to. Oh, Aunt Molly," he
cried, "I'm not heart-broken, and all that--I'm infinitely happy.
Because I still hold it--it doesn't die. Don't you see? And I know
that always it will be with me--whatever may come to her. I don't
want to forget--and it is my only joy in the matter, that I never
will forget. I can be happy this way; I don't want to give any other
woman a warmed-over heart, for this would always be there--I know
it--and so I am just going to keep it." He dropped his voice again
after a sigh, and went on: "There, that's all there is to it. Do you
think I'm a fool?" he asked, as the colour came into his face.

"No, Neal, I don't," said Molly Brownwell, as she stood beside him.
"You are a brave, manly fellow, Neal, and I wish I could help you. I
don't see how now--but the way will come--sometime. Now," she added,
"tell me about the paper."

And then they went into