back from you! And here it is, confused and
grotesque and contradictory and wrong. If I could look at you and say
it, I could get it right. If I could look at you--if I could see you.
Give me a chance. Then I'll go away again--if you say so. I had to
give you warning--it didn't seem square not. And I've bungled it like
this! I tell you I can't help it. It's what you've done to me. I
tried to spare you this, but I waited too long--now it's almighty.

Give me my man's chance--Oh I know I'm not worth it--who is?
Afterwards--

G. McB.

_October 10th_.

Telegram received by the Reverend Geoffrey McBirney, St. Andrews Parish
House, Warchester:

You must not come. Leaving Forest Gate. Sailing for Germany Saturday.
Letter.

AUGUST FIRST.

The son of the under-gardener was a steady ten-year-old three hundred
and sixty-four days of the year, and his Scottish blood commended him
to Robert Halarkenden and inspired a confidence not justified on the
three hundred and sixty-fifth day.

"Angus," said Halarkenden, regarding the boy with a blue glance like a
blow, "the young mistress wishes this letter posted to catch the noon
train. The master has sent for me and I canna take it. You will"--the
bony hand fished in the deep pocket and brought out a nickel--"you will
hurry with this letter and post it immediately." "Yes, sir," said
Angus, and Robert Halarkenden turned to go to the master of the great
house, ill in his great room, with no doubt about the United States
mails. While Angus, being in the power of the three hundred and
sixty-fifth day, trotted demurely into the meshes of Fate.

Fate was posing as another lad, a lad of charm and adventure. "C'm on,
Ang," proposed Fate in nasal American; "Evans's chauffeur's havin' a
rooster-fight in the garage. Hurry up--c'm on--lots of fun." And
while Angus, stirred by the prospect, struggled with a Scotch
conscience, the footman from next door sauntered up, a good-natured
youth, and, stopping, caught the question.

"Get along to your chicken-fight," he adjured Angus, and took the
letter from his hand. "I'm on my way to the post-office now. I'll
mail it as good as you, ain't it?" And Angus fled up the street along
with Fate. While Tom Mullins thrust the letter casually into a
coat-pocket and dropped in to see his best girl, and, in a bit of
horse-play with that lady, lost the letter. "Sure, I mailed it," he
answered Angus's inquiries that afternoon, a