n
her husband--his doubts of her--her repentance; and yet she did what she
thought was for the best; and then his forgiveness and the way he wanted
to take her in his arms at last and she would not until she explained.
And there was nothing really to explain--only love, and trust, and
truth--all the time believing in him--loving him. Oh, it is cruel
to part people--it's so mean and despicable! There are so many
Tackletons--and the May Fieldings go to the altar and so on to their
graves--and there is often such a very little difference between the
two. I never gave my promise to Mr. Willits. I would not!--I could not!
He kept hoping and waiting. He was very gentle and patient--he never
coaxed nor pleaded, but just--Oh, Uncle George!--let me talk it all
out--I have nobody else. I missed you so, and there was no one who could
understand, and you wouldn't answer my letters." She was crying softly
to herself, her beautiful head resting on her elbow pillowed on the back
of his chair.

He leaned forward the closer: he loved this girl next best to Harry. Her
sorrows were his own. Was it all coming out as he had hoped and prayed
for? He could hardly restrain himself in his eagerness.

"Did you miss anybody else, Kate?" There was a peculiar tenderness in
his voice.

She did not raise her head nor did she answer. St. George waited and
repeated the question, Slipping his hand over hers, as he spoke.

"It was the loneliness, Uncle George," she replied, evading his
inference. "I tried to forget it all, and I threw open our house and
gave parties and dances--hardly a week but there has been something
going on--but nothing did any good. I have been--yes--wretchedly unhappy
and--No, it will only distress you to hear it--don't let's talk any more
about it. I won't let you go away again. I'll go away with you if you
don't get better soon, anywhere you say. We'll go down to the White
Sulphur--Yes--we'll go there. The air is so bracing--it wouldn't be a
week before all the color would come back to your cheeks and you be as
strong as ever."

He was not listening. His mind was framing a question--one he must
ask without committing himself or her. He was running a parallel,
really--reading her heart by a flank movement.

"Kate, dear?" He had regained his position although he still kept hold
of her hand.

"Yes, Uncle George."

"Did you write to Harry, as I asked you?"

"No, it wouldn't have done any good. I have had troubles enough