voice; but now he seemed as the shadow of a former age.

He wrote in reply: What did I mean? Was it a joke--just a little of my old
tormenting spirit? Would I explain immediately? He couldn't get down to
see me for a fortnight at the least. .

I explained, and very tersely, that I had meant what I said, and in
return received a letter as short as my own:

Dear Miss Melvyn,

I regret your decision, but trust I have sufficient manhood to prevent me
from thrusting myself upon any lady, much less you.

Your sincere friend,
Harold Augustus Beecham.

He did not demand a reason for my decision, but accepted it
unquestionably. As I read his words he grew near to me, as in the days
gone by.

I closed my eyes, and before my mental vision there arose an overgrown
old orchard, skirting one of the great stock-routes from Riverina to
Monaro. A glorious day was languidly smiling good night on abundance of
ripe and ripening fruit and flowers. The scent of stock and the merry cry
of the tennis-players filled the air. I could feel Harold's wild jolting
heart-beats, his burning breath on my brow, and his voice husky with rage
in my ear. As he wrote that letter I could fancy the well-cut mouth
settling into a sullen line, as it had done on my birthday when, by
caressing, I had won it back to its habitual pleasant expression; but on
this occasion I would not be there. He would be angry just a little
while--a man of his strength and importance could not long hold ill-will
towards a woman, a girl, a child! as weak and insignificant as I. Then
when I should meet him in the years to come, when he would be the
faithful and loving husband of another woman, he would be a little
embarrassed perhaps; but I would set him at his case, and we would laugh
together re what he would term our foolish young days, and he would like
me in a brotherly way. Yes, that was how it would be. The tiny note
blackened in the flames.

So much for my romance of love! It had ended in a bottle of smoke, as all
my other dreams of life bid fair to do.

I think I was not fully aware how near I had been to loving Harold
Beecham until experiencing the sense of loss which stole over me on
holding in my hand the acceptance of his dismissal. It was a something
gone out of my life, which contained so few somethings, that I
crushingly felt the loss of any one.

Our greatest heart-treasure is a knowledge that there is in creation an
individual to whom our exist