ore her.

"Phil, why do you hate me?" she asked at the gate.

"I don't hate you, Lettie. You use an ugly word when you say 'hate,'" I
replied.

"There's one person I do hate," she said bitterly.

"Has he given you cause?"

"It's not a man; it's a woman. It's Marjie Whately," she burst out. "I
hate her."

"Well, Lettie, I'm sorry, for I don't believe Marjie deserves your
hate."

"Of course, you'd say so. But never mind. Marjie's not going to have my
hate alone. You'll feel like I do yet, when her mother forces her away
from you. Marjie's just a putty ball in her mother's hands, and her
mother is crazy about Amos Judson. Oh, I've said too much," she
exclaimed.

"You have, Lettie; but stop saying any more." I spoke sternly.
"Good-night."

She did not return my greeting, and I heard her slam the door behind
her.

That night, late as it was, I wrote a long letter to Marjie. I had no
pangs of jealousy, and I felt that she knew me too well to doubt my
faith, and yet I wanted just once more to assure her. When I had
finished, I went out softly and took my way down to "Rockport." It was
one of those glorious midsummer moonlit nights that have in their
subdued splendor something more regal than the most gorgeous midday. I
was thankful afterwards for the perfect beauty of that peaceful night,
with never a hint of the encroaching shadows, the deep gloom of sorrow
creeping toward me and my loved one. The town was sleeping quietly. The
Neosho was "chattering over stony ways," and whispering its midnight
melody. The wooded bottoms were black and glistening, and all the
prairies were a gleaming, silvery sea of glory. The peace of God was on
the world, the broad benediction of serenity and love. Oh, many a
picture have I in my memory's treasure house, that imperishable art
gallery of the soul. And among them all, this one last happy night with
its setting of Nature's grand handiwork stands clear evermore.

I had put my letter safe in its place, deep where nobody but Marjie
would find it. I knew that if even the slightest doubt troubled her this
letter would lift it clean away. I told her of Rachel Melrose and of my
fear of her designing nature, a fear that grew, as I reflected on her
acts and words. I did not believe the young lady cared for me. It was a
selfish wish to take what belonged to somebody else. I assured my little
girl that only as a gentleman should be courteous, had been my courtesy
to Rachel. And then for