evening, when I had
known her a month, as time is reckoned, and long years as affection
and understanding are computed, she told me her story--at least, what
there was to tell of it. The last chapter was missing.

We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset. Most of the hotel
people had gone for a harbour sail; a few forlorn mortals prowled
about the grounds and eyed our corner wistfully, but by the sign of
the heliotrope shawl knew it was not for them.

I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia. In my own excuse I
must allege that she tempted me to do it. I did not go around with
manuscripts under my arm, inflicting them on defenceless females. But
Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler, and
moreover, that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and
perpetrated a short story. Nothing would do but that I read it to her.

It was a rather sad little story. The hero loved the heroine, and she
loved him. There was no reason why he should not love her, but there
was a reason why he could not marry her. When he found that he loved
her he knew that he must go away. But might he not, at least, tell her
his love? Might he not, at least, find out for his consolation if she
cared for him? There was a struggle; he won, and went away without a
word, believing it to be the more manly course. When I began to read
Miss Sylvia was knitting, a pale green something this time, of the
tender hue of young leaves in May. But after a little her knitting
slipped unheeded to her lap and her hands folded idly above it. It was
the most subtle compliment I had ever received.

When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss
Sylvia's soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands,
clasped them together and said in an agitated voice:

"Oh, no, no; don't let him go away without telling her--just telling
her. Don't let him do it!"

"But, you see, Miss Sylvia," I explained, flattered beyond measure
that my characters had seemed so real to her, "that would spoil the
story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its _motif_ is
simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course."

"No, no, it wasn't--if he loved her he should have told her. Think of
her shame and humiliation--she loved him, and he went without a word
and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it--you
must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have
suffer