rldly
advantage influence you, nor the tittle-tattle of other folks, and
even if it seems that something insurmountable lies between you and the
fulfillment of love, go over it, or round it, or through it! If it's a
real love, your faith must be big enough to remove the mountains in the
way--or to go over them.

"The package of letters you will find in the bureau were those your
mother wrote to me during the few short weeks we belonged to each other.
I'm a sentimental old fool, and I've never been able to bring myself to
burn them. Will you do this for me?

"In the little velvet case you will find her miniature, which I give
to you. It is very like her--and like you, too, for you resemble her
wonderfully in appearance. Often, to look at you has made my heart ache;
sometimes it almost seemed as if the years had rolled back and Pauline
herself stood before me.

"And now that the order for release is on its way to me, it is rather
wonderful to reflect that in a few weeks--a few days, perhaps--I shall
be seeing her again. . . .

"Good-bye, little pal of mine. We've had some good times together,
haven't we?

"Your devoted, PATRICK."

Sara sat very still, the letter clasped in her hand. She had always
secretly believed that some long-dead romance lay behind Patrick's
bachelorhood, but she had never suspected that her own mother had been
the woman he had loved.

The knowledge illumined all the past with a fresh light, investing it
with a tender, reminiscent sentiment. It was easy now to understand the
almost idyllic atmosphere Patrick had infused into their life together.
Sara recognized it as the outcome of a love and fidelity as beautiful
and devoted as it is rare. Patrick's love for her mother had partaken
of the enduring qualities of the great passions of history. Paolo and
Francesca, Abelard and Heloise--even they could have known no deeper, no
more lasting love than that of Patrick Lovell for Pauline.

The love-letters of the dead woman lay on Sara's lap, still tied
together with the black ribbon which Patrick's fingers must have knotted
round them. There were only six of them--half-a-dozen memories of a love
that had come hopelessly to grief--tangible memories which her lover had
never had the heart to destroy.

Sara handled them caressingly, these few, pathetic records of a bygone
passion, and at length, with hands that shook a little, she removed the
ribbon that bound them together. Where it had lain, pres