pany, I thought I could not without
danger meet him again.

I was afraid of him, but I was still more afraid of myself.

Recalling my last sight of his face as he ran out of the house, and
knowing well the desire of my own heart, I felt that if I spent another
day in his company it would be impossible to say what might happen.

As a result of this riot of emotions I resolved to remain all day in my
room, and towards evening to send out a letter bidding him good-bye and
good-luck. It would be a cold end to a long friendship and my heart was
almost frozen at the thought of it, but it was all I dared do and I saw
no help for it.

But how little did I know what was written in the Book of Fate for me!

First came Price on pretence of bathing my forehead, and she bombarded
me with accounts of Martin's anxiety. When he had heard that I was ill
he had turned as white as if sixteen ounces of blood had been taken out
of him. It nearly broke me up to hear that, but Price, who was artful,
only laughed and said:

"Men _are_ such funny things, bless them! To think of that fine young
man, who is big enough to fell an ox and brave enough to face a lion,
being scared to death because a little lady has a headache."

All morning she was in and out of my room with similar stories, and
towards noon she brought me a bunch of roses wet with the dew, saying
that Tommy the Mate had sent them.

"Are you sure it was Tommy the Mate?" I asked, whereupon the sly thing,
who was only waiting to tell the truth, though she pretended that I was
forcing it out of her, admitted that the flowers were from Martin, and
that he had told her not to say so.

"What's he doing now?" I asked.

"Writing a letter," said Price, "and judging by the times he has torn it
up and started again and wiped his forehead, it must be a tough job, I
can tell you."

I thought I knew whom the letter was meant for, and before luncheon it
came up to me.

It was the first love letter I had ever had from Martin, and it melted
me like wax over a candle. I have it still, and though Martin is such a
great man now, I am tempted to copy it out just as it was written with
all its appearance of irreverence (none, I am sure, was intended), and
even its bad spelling, for without that it would not be Martin--my boy
who could never learn his lessons.

_"Dear Mary,--I am destroyed to here how ill you are, and when I think
it's all my fault I am ready to kick myself.

"Don't worry