letters are those, and why are
you crying over them?"

"Oh, Peter," quavered Linda, "you know how I love Marian. You have seen
her and I have told you over and over."

"Yes," said Peter soothingly, "I know."

"I have told you how, after years of devotion to Marian, John Gilman let
Eileen make a perfect rag of him and tie him into any kind of knot she
chose. Peter, when Marian left here she had lost everything on earth but
a little dab of money. She had lost a father who was fine enough to be
my father's best friend. She had lost a mother who was fine enough to
rear Marian to what she is. She had lost them in a horrible way that
left her room for a million fancies and regrets: 'if I had done this,'
or 'if I had done that,' or 'if I had taken another road.' And when she
went away she knew definitely she had lost the first and only love of
her heart; and I knew, because she was so sensitive and so fine, I knew,
better than anybody living, how she COULD be hurt; and I thought if I
could fix some scheme that would entertain her and take her mind off
herself and make her feel appreciated only for a little while--I knew in
all reason, Peter, when she got out in the world where men would see her
and see how beautiful and fine she is, there would be somebody who would
want her quickly. All the time I have thought that when she came back,
YOU would want her. Peter, I fibbed when I said I was setting your
brook for Louise Whiting. I was not. I don't know Louise Whiting. She is
nothing to me. I was setting it for you and Marian. It was a WHITE head
I saw among the iris marching down your creek bank, not a gold one,
Peter."

Peter licked his dry lips and found it impossible to look at Linda.

"Straight ahead with it," he said gravely. "What did you do?"

"Oh, I have done the awfullest thing," wailed Linda, "the most
unforgivable thing!"

She reached across and laid hold of the hand next her, and realizing
that she needed it for strength and support, Peter gave it into her
keeping.

"Yes?" he questioned. "Get on with it, Linda. What was it you did?"

"I had a typewriter: I could. I began writing her letters, the kind of
letters that I thought would interest her and make her feel loved and
appreciated."

"You didn't sign my name to them, did you, Linda?" asked Peter in a dry,
breathless voice.

"No, Peter," said Linda, "I did not do that, I did worse. Oh, I did a
whole lot worse!"

"I don't understand," said Peter hoa