Walden can you not understand how hard this is for me to do?
Think how I must put my own mother at your mercy--my own, dear mother!"

Only one thought held Ann Walden--would her visitor never go? The few
moments were like agonized hours; the shock she had received had been
so fearful that for a moment she was stunned, and before the true
significance overwhelmed her she must be alone!

"I--have nothing to forgive. You and yours, Miss Lowe, have nothing to
do with me and mine--you must indeed--go! I cannot talk of--the past
to you. You--have made a great mistake--a fearful mistake. My sister
has--has nothing----"

The stern young eyes compelled silence.

"I--I wish you would let me help you--for the love you once had for
Uncle Theodore," said Marcia Lowe; "you must have forgiven your sister
when she told you; can you not forgive him?"

"Stop! You do not know what you are talking about----" Vainly, almost
roughly, the older woman strove to push the knife away that the
ruthless, misunderstanding young hands were plunging deeper and deeper
into the suddenly opened wound.

"Oh! yes, Miss Walden, I know--here's the letter!"

She held it out frankly as if it must, at least, be the tie to bind
them.

"I spoke perhaps too quickly, too unexpectedly; but it is as hard for
me as it is for you. I thought you would know that. I could not talk
of little things when this big thing lay between us. It is our--duty."

Pleadingly, pitifully, the words were spoken, but they did not move the
listener. Hurriedly, as if all but spent, Ann Walden panted:

"I reckon it is because you are young you cannot understand how
impossible it is for you and me to--be friends. You must forgive
me--and you must go!"

"But the money!"

"What money?" Something bitterer and crueller than the money had taken
the memory of that away.

"Uncle Theodore's money. You see it is not mine--neither you nor I
should keep it from Uncle Theodore's----"

"Oh! go, go; I cannot talk to you now. I will see you again--some
other day--go!"

At last the look in Ann Walden's face attracted and held Marcia Lowe's
mercy. She forgot her own trouble and mission; her impetuosity died
before the dumb misery of the woman near her. Realizing that she could
gain nothing more at present by staying, she placed the letter upon the
table as she passed out of the room and the house.

For a few moments Ann Walden stood and looked at the vacant spot whence
t