up the river and in about an hour
we came into quite a thriving port with the Sunday quiet over everything,
and Geoffrey did things to the engine that put it out of commission, and
then he left it with a man on the pier, and we took the train.

It seems that all night at Bower's they were looking for us. They even
took other boats, and followed. And they called. I know that if Geoffrey
heard them call he didn't answer.

Every one seemed to accept our explanation. Perhaps they thought it
queer. But I can't help that.

Geoffrey is going away to-morrow. When we were alone in the hall for a
moment he told me that he was going. "If you can ever forgive me," he
said, "will you write and tell me? What I have done may seem
unforgivable. But when a man dreams a great deal he sometimes thinks
that he can make his dreams come true."

Uncle Rod, I think the worst thing in the whole wide world is to be
disappointed in people. As soon as school closes I am coming back to you.
Perhaps you can make me see the sunsets. And what do you say about life
now? Is it what we make it? Did I have anything to do with this mad
adventure? Yet the memory of it will always--smirch.

And if life isn't what we make it, where is our hope and where are our
sunsets? Tell me that, you old dear.

ANNE.

P.S. When I opened my door just now, I found that Geoffrey had left on
the threshold his little Napoleon, and a letter. I am sending the letter
to you. I cried over it, and I am afraid it is blurred--but I haven't
time to make a copy before the mail goes.

* * * * *

What Geoffrey said:

* * * * *

MY LITTLE CHILD:

I am calling you that because there is something so young and untouched
about you. If I were an artist I should paint you as young Psyche--and
there should be a hint of angels' wings in the air and it should be
spring--with a silver dawn. But if I could paint should I ever be able to
put on canvas the light in your eyes when you have talked to me by the
fire, my kind little friend whom I have lost?

I cannot even now understand the mood that possessed me. Yet I will be
frank. I saw you go into the wood with Richard Brooks. I felt that if he
should say to you what I was sure he wanted to say that there would be no
chance for me--so I hurried after you. The thing which was going to
happen must not happen; and I arrived in time. After that I told Brooks
as we walked back