ondness.
Yet he wanted to marry me, Joan, and when he knew that there was
someone else, and that he stood in the way of our happiness, the
whole plan was arranged, and we had to find a name, you
understand. And he asked me to suggest one, and I thought of
yours, because it is the prettiest name I know; and he, Hugh,
never dreamed that it belonged to a living woman. And so it was
used, dear, and all this trouble and all this misunderstanding
came about. I always wanted to tell you the truth, but he wouldn't
let me, because he was afraid that if Aunt got to hear of it, she
might be angry and send Tom away. But now I know she would not,
and so I am telling you everything. The fault was mine. And yet,
you know, dear, I had no thought of angering or of offending you.
Write to me and tell me you forgive me. And oh, Joan, don't let
pride come between you and the man you love, for I think he is one
of the finest men I know, the best and straightest.

"MARJORIE."

Marjorie felt that she had lifted a weight from her mind when she put
this letter in the post.

Long, long ago Joan had acquitted Hugh of any intention to offend or
annoy her by the use of her name. Yet why had he never told her the
truth, told her that it had never been his doing at all? She read
Marjorie's letter, and then thrust it away from her. Why had he not
written this? Did he care less now than he had? Had she tired him out
with her coldness and her pride? Perhaps that was it.

Yesterday Ellice had come over on the old bicycle--Ellice with shining
eyes and pink cheeks, glowing with happiness and joy, and Ellice had
hugged her tightly, and tried to whisper thanks that would not come.

She was happy now. Marjorie was happy. Only she seemed to be cut off
from happiness. Why had he gone without a word, just those few written
lines? He had not cared so much, after all.

And so the days went by. Joan wrote a loving, sympathetic letter to
Marjorie. She quite understood, and she did not blame Hugh; she blamed
no one.

It was a long letter, dealing mainly with her life, with the village,
with the things she was doing and going to do. But of the
future--nothing; of the past, in so far as Hugh Alston was
concerned--nothing.

And when Marjorie read the letter she read of an unsatisfied, unhappy
spirit, of a girl whose whole heart yearned and longed for love, and
whose pride held her in check and