which she
sat, a little nervously, and banging her head a little, "I think I can
have what I want."

"Then, give the whole world for it, child!"

"There is something I should like to tell you."

"Yes!"

"For you to advise me about."

"I will, my dear, gladly and truly!"

"He was here before you came. He asked me--"

Miss Milray gave a start of alarm. She said, to gain time: "How did he
get here? I supposed he was in Germany with his--"

"No; he was here the whole of May."

"Mr. Gregory!"

"Mr. Gregory?" Clementina's face flushed and drooped Still lower. "I
meant Mr. Hinkle. But if you think I oughtn't--"

"I don't think anything; I'm so glad! I supposed from what you said
about the world, that it must be--But if it isn't, all the better. If
it's Mr. Hinkle that you can have--"

"I'm not sure I can. I should like to tell you just how it is, and then
you will know." It needed fewer words for this than she expected, and
then Clementina took a letter from her pocket, and gave it to Miss
Milray. "He wrote it on the train, going away, and it's not very plain;
but I guess you can make it out."

Miss Milray received the penciled leaves, which seemed to be pages torn
out of a note-book. They were dated the day Hinkle left Venice, and the
envelope bore the postmark of Verona. They were not addressed, but began
abruptly: "I believe I have made a mistake; I ought not to have given
you up till I knew something that no one but you can tell me. You are
not bound to any body unless you wish to be so. That is what I see now,
and I will not give you up if I can help it. Even if you had made a
promise, and then changed your mind, you would not be bound in such
a thing as this. I say this, and I know you will not believe I say it
because I want you. I do want you, but I would not urge you to break
your faith. I only ask you to realize that if you kept your word when
your heart had gone out of it, you would be breaking your faith; and if
you broke your word you would be keeping your faith. But if your heart
is still in your word, I have no more to say. Nobody knows but you. I
would get out and take the first train back to Venice if it were not for
two things. I know it would be hard on me; and I am afraid it might
be hard on you. But if you will write me a line at Milan, when you get
this, or if you will write to me at London before July; or at New York
at any time--for I expect to wait as long as I live--"

The letter e