t was gnawing at her heart.

At last there came a day when he could no longer restrain himself. She
had been seated in his presence, and had been handed a letter which for
the moment seemed to thoroughly overwhelm her. We know what that letter
was. It was the note which had been sent as a decoy by the detective
Hickory, but which she had no reason to doubt was a real communication
from Craik Mansell, despite the strange handwriting on the envelope. It
prayed her for an interview. It set the time and mentioned the place of
meeting, and created for the instant such a turmoil in her usually
steady brain that she could not hide it from the searching eyes that
watched her.

"What is it, Imogene?" inquired Mr. Orcutt, drawing near her with a
gesture of such uncontrollable anxiety, it looked as if he were about to
snatch the letter from her hand.

For reply she rose, walked to the grate, in which a low wood fire was
burning, and plunged the paper in among the coals. When it was all
consumed she turned and faced Mr. Orcutt.

"You must excuse me," she murmured; "but the letter was one which I
absolutely desired no one to see."

But he did not seem to hear her apology. He stood with his gaze fixed on
the fire, and his hand clenched against his heart, as if something in
the fate of that wretched sheet of paper reminded him of the love and
hope that were shrivelling up before his eyes.

She saw his look and drooped her head with a sudden low moan of mingled
shame and suffering.

"Am I killing _you_?" she faintly cried. "Are my strange, wild ways
driving _you_ to despair? I had not thought of that. I am so selfish, I
had not thought of that!"

This evidence of feeling, the first she had ever shown him, moved Mr.
Orcutt deeply. Advancing toward her, with sudden passion, he took her by
the hand.

"Killing me?" he repeated. "Yes, you are killing me. Don't you see how
fast I am growing old? Don't you see how the dust lies thick upon the
books that used to be my solace and delight? I do not understand you,
Imogene. I love you and I do not understand your grief, or what it is
that is affecting you in this terrible way. Tell me. Let me know the
nature of the forces with which I have to contend, and I can bear all
the rest."

This appeal, forced as it was from lips unused to prayer, seemed to
strike her, absorbed though she was in her own suffering. Looking at him
with real concern, she tried to speak, but the words faltered on