m the mess she had
made of her life and Phil's.

Oddly enough, it was not until that moment that she thought of him as
being particularly affected by her decision. Probably it was because she
had always taken such an humble attitude in her mind towards the Best
Man that she had not realized it might be as hard for him to be
"renounced" as for her to make the sacrifice.

On their return Mrs. Blythe saw her quick glance at the silver tray on
the hall table. Any letters arriving while they were out were always
placed there. It was impossible that there should be any now, for the
postman had made his last rounds before they started out. Nevertheless,
she glanced hopefully towards it, and was turning away in disappointment
when the maid, who had heard their latchkey in the door, came into the
hall.

"There's a caller in the library for Miss Ware," she announced. "Been
waiting nearly an hour."

"It's probably Electa Dunn," said Mary listlessly, to whom the word
"waiting" brought up the figure of an unfortunate little seamstress who
had spent a large part of her life in that attitude.

"I left word that I had some sewing for her to do and would send the
material to-morrow. She must be more eager than ever for work, else she
wouldn't come a day ahead of time and wait till dark to get it."

The library door stood open and the firelight shone out cheerfully
across the hall, now almost dark with the shadows of the February
twilight. Just that way it had shone out to meet her three months
before, when she came down and found Phil there. That room had seemed
sacred to her ever since. She wished the maid had not sent Electa in
there to wait for her. It hurt so to have to go into it and recall all
that had happened since that meeting. For an instant her eyes closed and
her lips pressed together as if an actual physical pain had gripped her.
Then she forced herself to go on. At the doorway she paused again and
passed the back of her hand across her eyes, sure that she was dreaming.

It was all as it had been that never-to-be-forgotten night. Some one
stood before the fire gazing down into the dancing flames. It was not
the patient little seamstress, however. The tall, masterful man that
stood there had never waited patiently for anything in his life. Now, at
the sound of her entrance, he turned and came impetuously towards her,
his face alight, his hands outstretched.

Mrs. Blythe, half-way up the stairs, heard Mary's surprise