possibility, and that it
was imperative upon her to write at once and tell him so.

She walked miles that day, and returned at length utterly wearied in
body and mind. She was facing the hardest problem of her life.

Not till after midnight was her letter to Jim finished, and even then
she could not rest. Had she utterly ruined the boy's life? she wondered,
as she sealed and directed her crude, piteous appeal for freedom.

When the morning light came grey through her window she was still poring
above a blank sheet of notepaper.

This eventually carried but one sentence, addressed to the friend who
had stood by her in trouble; and later in the day she sent it by cable
to the other side of the world. The message ran: "Please cancel
engagement.--Evelyn." His answering cable was brought to her at the
dinner-table. Two words only--"Delighted.--Lester."

Out of a mist of floating uncertainty she saw her host bend towards her.

"All well, I trust?" he said kindly.

And she made a desperate effort to control her weakness and reply
naturally.

"Oh, quite, quite," she said. "It is exactly what I expected."
Nevertheless, she was trembling from head to foot, as if she had been
dealt a stunning blow.

Had she altogether expected so prompt and obliging a reply?

* * * * *

Some weeks later, on an afternoon of bleak, early spring, Evelyn
wandered alone on the shore where she had bidden Jim Willowby farewell.
It was raining, and the sea was grey and desolate. The tide was coming
in with a fierce roaring that seemed to fill the whole world.

She had a letter from Jim in her hand--his answer to her appeal for
freedom; and she had sought the solitude of the shore in which to read
it.

She took shelter from the howling sea-wind behind a great boulder of
rock. She dreaded his reproaches unspeakably. For the past six weeks she
had lived in dread of that moment. Her fingers were shaking as she
opened the envelope that bore his boyish scrawl.

An enclosure fell out before she had withdrawn his letter. She caught it
up hastily before the wind could take possession. It was an unmounted
photograph--actually the portrait of a girl.

Evelyn stared at the roguish, laughing face with a great amazement.
Then, with a haste that baffled its own ends, she sought his letter.

It began with astounding jauntiness:

"DEAR OLD EVE,--What a pair of superhuman idiots we have
been! Many thanks for you