have married you, but--

Here she paused for a long time.

I loved you. I'd rather she didn't call you Maurice. But I want you to
have Jacky; so marry her, and you will have him. I am not jealous, you
see. You won't call me jealous any more, will you? And, besides, I love
little Jacky, too. See that he has music lessons.

Another pause... Many thoughts... Many straws and dead leaves... "Edith
will never enter the house, if Lily is here--with Jacky.... Oh--I hate
her."

You will believe I love you, won't you, darling? I wish I hadn't married
you; I didn't mean to do you any harm. I just loved you, and I thought I
could make you happy. I know now that I didn't. Forgive me, darling, for
marrying you...

Again a long pause....

I don't mind dying at all, if I can give you what you want. And I don't
mind your marrying Lily. I am sure she can make good cake--tell her to
try that chocolate cake you liked so much. I tried it twice, but it was
heavy. I forgot the baking powder. Make her call you "Mr. Curtis." Oh,
Maurice--you will believe I love you?--even if I am--

She put her pen down and buried her face in her arms folded on his desk;
she couldn't seem to write that word of three letters which she had
supposed summed up the tragedy, begun on that June day in the field and
ending, she told herself, on this March day, in the same place. So, by
and by, instead of writing "old," she wrote

"a poor housekeeper."

Then she pondered on how she should sign the letter, and after a while
she wrote:

"STAR."

She looked at the radiant word, and then kissed it. By and by she got
up--with difficulty, for she had sat there so long that she was stiff in
every joint--and going to her own desk, she hunted about in it for that
little envelope, which, for nearly twelve of the fifty golden years
which were to find them in "their field," had held the circle of braided
grass. When she opened it, and slid the ring out into the palm of her
hand it crumbled into dust. She debated putting it back into the
envelope and inclosing it in her letter? But a rush of tenderness for
Maurice made her say: "No! It might hurt him." So she dropped it down
behind the logs in the fireplace. "When the fire is lighted it will burn
up." Lily's scented handkerchief had turned to ashes there, too. Then
she folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, addressed
it, and put it in her desk. "He'll find it," she thought, "_afterward_."
Find it,-