allowed selfishness of a betrothed pair about Barbara. Sometimes I
almost forget that she _is_ engaged, so little does she ever bring
herself into the foreground; and yet, if it were not for us, I think
that to-day she could well find in her heart to be mirthful.

After all is said and done, I _still_ love Barbara. However much the
rest of my life has turned to Dead Sea apples, I still love Barbara;
and, what is more, I shall always love her now. Is not she to live at
only a stone's-throw from me? I do not think that I am of a very gushing
nature generally, but as I think these thoughts I take hold of her
slight hand, and give it a long squeeze. Somehow the action consoles me.

Two more days pass. It is morning again, and I am sitting in my boudoir,
doing nothing (I never seem to myself to do any thing now), and
listlessly thinking how yellow the great horse-chestnut in the garden is
turning, and how kindly and becomingly Death handles all leaves and
flowers, so different from the bitter spite with which he makes havoc of
_us_, when Roger enters. It surprises me, as it is the first time that
he has done it since our return.

We are on the formalest terms now; perhaps so best; and, if we have to
address each other, do it in the shortest little icy phrases. When we
are _obliged_ to meet, as at dinner, etc., we both talk resolutely to
Barbara. He does not look icy now; disturbed rather, and anxious. He has
an open note in his hand.

"Nancy," he says, coming quickly up to me, "did you know that Algy was
at Laurel Cottage?"

"Not I!" I answer, tartly. "He does not favor me with his plans;
tiresome boy. He is more bother than he is worth."

"Hush!" he says, hastily yet gently. "Do not say any thing against him;
you will be sorry if you do. He is _ill_."

"_Ill!_" repeat I, in a tone of consternation, for among us it is a new
word, and its novelty is awful. "What is the matter with him?"

Then, without waiting for an answer, I snatch the note from his hand. I
do not know to this day whether he meant me to read it or not, but I
think he _did_, and glance hastily through it. I am well into it before
I realize that it is from my rival.

"MY DEAR ROGER:

"My hand is trembling so much that I can hardly hold the pen, but,
_as usual_, in my troubles, I turn to you. Algy Grey is here. You,
who always understand, will know how much against my will his
coming was, but he _would_ come; and you know, po