ing besides her own will had kept
her away.

When he went to the hotel desk, a clerk handed him a letter.

"This was here when you registered, I think," he said. "But I didn't know
it. I'm sorry."

When he saw the handwriting of the address he was filled with commotion.
Here, then, was her explanation. This would tell him why she had failed
him. This, in all probability, would make all right.

He went to his room to read it, sat down on the edge of the bed and ripped
the envelope open with an impatient finger. The letter was dated two days
earlier--the day after she had received his telegram.

"I don't know what to say," she wrote, "but it doesn't matter much. You
will despise me anyway, and I despise myself. But I can't help it--honestly
I can't. I meant to keep my promise and I would have kept it, but they
found your telegram and mother read it--by mistake, of course. I ought to
have had sense enough to burn it. You can't imagine how awful it has been.
Mother said the most terrible things about you, things she had heard. And
she said that I would be ruining my life and hers. I said I didn't care,
because I loved you. I can't tell you what an awful quarrel we had! And I
wouldn't have given in, but she told Gordon and he was so terribly angry.
He said it was a disgrace to the family, and he began to cough and had a
hemorrhage and we thought he was going to die. Mother said he probably
would die unless I gave you up.

"That finished me. I couldn't do anything after that--I just couldn't.
There was nothing but misery in sight either way, so what was the use?
I've lost all my courage and all my doubts have come back. I do love
you--terribly. But you are so strange, so different. And I don't think we
would have gotten along or anything. I try to comfort myself by thinking
it's all for the best, but it doesn't really comfort me at all. I never
knew people could be as miserable as I am now. I don't think its fair.

"When you get this I will be on my way to New York and nearly there. We
are going to sail for Europe immediately. I will never see you again. I
will always love you.

"Julia."

Rage possessed him at first--the rage of defeated desire, of injured pride,
of a passionate, undisciplined nature crossed and beaten. He flung the
letter on the floor, and strode up and down the room, looking about for
something to smash or tear. So she was that ki