t her effort to obtain
freedom.

"There's a letter for ye here, from foreign parts," announced Mrs.
MacRae. "Leastwise 't ain't an American stamp."

Madge took it from her, wondering. A queer tremor came over her. The
man had written!

Once in her room she tore the envelope open. The handwriting was queer
and irregular. But a man may write badly and still be honest and true.
And the words she read were wonderful. This individual, who merely
signed A. B. C., was eager to have her come to him. She would be
treated with the greatest respect. If the man and the place were not
suited to her she would naturally be at liberty to return immediately.
It was unfortunate that his occupations absolutely prevented his
coming over at once to New York to meet her. If she would only come he
felt certain that she would be pleased. The hosts of friends he had
would welcome her.

Thus it ran for three pages and Madge stared at the light, a
tremendous longing tearing at her soul, a great fear causing her heart
to throb.

She forgot the meagre supper she had brought with her and finally sat
down to write again. Like the first letter it was a sort of
confession. She acknowledged again that life no longer offered any
prospect of happiness to her. After she looked again in the little
glass she wrote that she was not very good-looking. To her own eyes
she now appeared ugly. But she said she knew a good deal about
housekeeping, which was true, and was willing to work and toil for a
bit of kindness and consideration. Her face was again red as she
wrote. There was something in all this that shocked her modesty, her
inborn sense of propriety and decency. But, after all, she reflected
that men and women met somehow, and became acquainted. And the
acquaintance, in some cases, became love. And the love eventuated in
the only really happy life a man or a woman could lead.

Nearly another week went by before the second answer arrived. It again
urged her to come. It spoke of the wonderful place Carcajou was, of
the marvel that was Roaring Falls, of the greatness of the woodlands
of Ontario. Indeed, for one of her limited attainments, Sophy's letter
was a remarkable effort. This time the missive was signed in printed
letters: HUGO ENNIS. This seemed queer. But some men signed in very
puzzling fashion and this one had used this method, in all likelihood,
in order that she might be sure to get the name right. And it was a
pleasant-sounding name, ra