a little tingle of pleasure shot through him
at the thought. He did not understand it. After all she was his, and if it
was possible he must help to make up to her for what she had lost in
giving herself to him. If the thought of doing so brought a sense of
satisfaction to him that was unexpected, he was not to blame in any wise.

Since his interview with Kate, and the terrible night of agony through
which he had passed, David had plunged into his business with all his
might. Whenever a thought of Kate came he banished it if possible, and if
it would not go he got out his writing materials and went to work at an
article, to absorb his mind. He had several times arisen in the night to
write because he could not sleep, and must think.

When he was obliged to be in New York he had steadily kept away from the
house where Kate lived, and never walked through the streets without
occupying his mind as fully as possible so that he should not chance to
see her. In this way his sorrow was growing old without having been worn
out, and he was really regaining a large amount of his former happiness
and interest in life. Not so often now did the vision of Kate come to
trouble him. He thought she was still his one ideal of womanly beauty and
grace and perfection of course, and always would be, but she was not for
him to think upon any more. A strong true man he was growing, out of his
sorrow. And now when the thought of Marcia came to him with a certain
sweetness he could be glad that it was so, and not resent it. Of course no
one could ever take the place of Kate, that was impossible.

So reflecting, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he opened Miranda's
epistle.

Puzzled and surprised he began to read the strange chirography, and as he
read his face darkened and he drew his brows in a heavy frown. "The
scoundrel!" he muttered as he turned the sheet. Then as he went on his
look grew anxious. He scanned the page quickly as if he would gather the
meaning from the crooked ill-spelled words without taking them one by one.
But he had to go slowly, for Miranda had not written with as much
plainness as haste. He fairly held his breath when he thought of the
gentle girl in the hands of the unscrupulous man of the world. A terrible
fear gripped his heart, Marcia, little Marcia, so sweet and pure and good.
A vision of her face as she lay asleep in the woods came between him and
the paper. Why had he left her unprotected all these months?