ase, PLEASE try. A girl ought to be perfectly happy who
is going to be married. And I am so miserable. I can't tell Mother
and Father because they would not believe me. They would think I just
imagined it all. But YOU won't think that, will you? You will see him
and try to help him, for my sake."

And so on, eight closely written pages, ending with another plea to me
to see "poor George" and help him, and begging me to "burn this letter,
because I should be so ashamed to have any one else see it."

It was a pitiful letter and, even in the frame of mind I was then in,
disgusted with humanity and hating the entire feminine sex, I could
not help feeling sorry for Nellie Dean. Of course I was surprised at
receiving such a letter and I believed, just as she begged me not to
believe, that the cause of her distress and anxiety was more imaginary
than real. But that something was troubling George Taylor I had felt
certain for a good while. The idea that he did not love Nellie I knew
was preposterous. That was not it. There was something else, but what I
could not imagine. I wanted to help the girl if I could, but how could I
ask George to tell me his secrets? I, with a secret of my own.

After pondering for some time I decided to walk up to George's boarding
place and talk with him. Nothing would come of the interview, probably,
but I might as well do that as anything else. I must do something,
something besides sit in that room and see mocking faces in every
corner, faces with dark eyes and scornful lips which told me that my
charming and cultivated society was not necessary to their happiness.

Taylor rented the upper floor of a house a quarter of a mile from the
bank. His housekeeper answered my ring and informed me that her employer
had not yet come home.

"He did not even come home for supper," she said. "Stayed over to
Nellie's probably. You'll most likely find him there."

But I was pretty certain he was not at the Deans', for as I passed their
house, I noticed the windows were dark, indicating that the family, like
most of respectable Denboro, had already retired. I walked on to the
Corners. Eldredge's store was closed, but the billiard room was radiant
and noisy. I could hear Tim Hallet's voice urging some one to take a new
cue, "'cause that one ain't pocketed many balls yet."

I looked across at the bank. The front portion of it was black enough,
but the window of the directors' room was alight. I had located th