retorted. "And I'll take
a bet with you as to who catches the most trout next time."

The advent of three people who were in complete ignorance of the
happenings of the last few days went far to restore the atmosphere to
normal. Amid the bustle of their arrival and the gay chatter which
accompanied it, it would have been impossible for Kitty, at least, not
to throw aside for the moment the anxieties which beset her and join in
the general fun and laughter.

But Nan, although she played up pluckily, so that no suspicions were
aroused in the minds of the returned wanderers, was still burdened by
the knowledge of what yet remained for her to do, and when the jolly
clamour had abated a trifle she escaped upstairs to write her letter to
Roger. It was a difficult letter to write because, though nothing he
could say or do would alter her determination, she realised that in his
own way he loved her and she wanted to hurt him as little as possible.

"I know you will think I am being both dishonourable and disloyal," she
wrote, after she had first stated her decision quite clearly and
simply. "But to me it seems I am doing the only thing possible in
loyalty to the man I love. And in a way it is loyal to you, too,
Roger, because--as you have known from the beginning--I could never
give you all that a man has a right to expect from the women he
marries. One can't 'share out' love in bits. I've learned, now, that
love means all or nothing, and as I cannot give you all, it must be
nothing. And of this you may be sure--perhaps it may make you feel
that I have behaved less badly to you--I am not breaking off our
engagement in order to marry someone else. I shall never marry anyone,
now."

Nan read it through, then slipped it into an envelope and sealed it.
When she had directed it to "Roger Trenby, Esq.," she leaned back in
her chair, feeling curiously tired, but conscious of a sense of peace
and tranquillity that had been absent from her since the day on which
she had promised to marry Roger. . . . And the next day, by the
shattered Lovers' Bridge, Peter had carried her in his arms across the
stream and kissed her hair. She had known then, known very surely,
that love had come to her--Peter loved her, and his slightest touch
meant happiness so poignantly sweet as to be almost unbearable. Only
the knowledge had come too late.

But now--now she was free! Though she would never know the supreme joy
of mating with t