jealous woman. He
felt stunned as if by a physical blow.

After a time his fierce anger and shame died into a calm desperation.
The deed was done beyond recall. It only remained for him to go to
Una, tell her the truth, and implore her pardon. Then he must go from
her sight and presence forever.

* * * * *

It was dusk when he went to her home. They told him that she was in
the garden, and he found her there, standing at the curve of the box
walk, among the last late-blooming flowers of the summer.

Have you thought from his letters that she was a wonderful woman of
marvellous beauty? Not so. She was a sweet and slender slip of
girlhood, with girlhood's own charm and freshness. There were
thousands like her in the world--thank God for it!--but only one like
her in one man's eyes.

He stood before her mute with shame, his boyish face white and
haggard. She had blushed crimson all over her dainty paleness at sight
of him, and laid her hand quickly on the breast of her white gown. Her
eyes were downcast and her breath came shortly.

He thought her silence the silence of anger and scorn. He wished that
he might fling himself in the dust at her feet.

"Una--Miss Clifford--forgive me!" he stammered miserably. "I--I did
not send them. I never meant that you should see them. A shameful
trick has been played upon me. Forgive me!"

"For what am I to forgive you?" she asked gravely. She did not look
up, but her lips parted in the little half-smile he loved. The blush
was still on her face.

"For my presumption," he whispered. "I--I could not help loving you,
Una. If you have read the letters you know all the rest."

"I have read the letters, every word," she answered, pressing her hand
a little more closely to her breast. "Perhaps I should not have done
so, for I soon discovered that they were not meant for me to read. I
thought at first you had sent them, although the writing of the
address on the packet did not look like yours; but even when I knew
you did not I could not help reading them all. I do not know who sent
them, but I am very grateful to the sender."

"Grateful?" he said wonderingly.

"Yes. I have something to forgive you, but not--not your presumption.
It is your blindness, I think--and--and your cruel resolution to go
away and never tell me of your--your love for me. If it had not been
for the sending of these letters I might never have known. How can I
forgive you for