had faded, his face was elongated. "I'm sorry enough
about your loss, my boy," he said, "but I can't say as much as I
might, or feel as much as I might, if my old friend hadn't gone down
in--a deeper flood." The Squire's voice broke. Jerome looked away
from his working face. He had scarcely, in his own selfishness of
loss, grasped the news of Colonel Lamson's death, which had taken
place before the bridge went down and before the doctor arrived. He
muttered something vaguely sympathetic in response. Lucina's little
letter seemed to burn his fingers.

The Squire dashed his hand across his eyes, coughed hard, then
glanced at the letter. "Lucina has been talking to her mother," he
said, abruptly. "It seems the--Colonel Lamson had told her something
that you said to him. We didn't know how matters stood. By-and-by you
and I will have a talk. Don't be too down-hearted over the
mill--there's more than one way out of that difficulty. In the
meantime, there's her letter--I've read it. She's cried all night
because your damned mill has gone, and looks sick enough to call the
doctor this morning, and, by the Lord Harry! sir, you can think
yourself a lucky fellow!" With that the Squire shook his head
fiercely and strode down the path with bowed shoulders. Jerome went
up-stairs with his letter.

"What did the Squire want?" his mother called, but he did not heed
her.

It was his first letter from Lucina. He opened it and read; there
were only a few delicately formed lines, but for him they were as
finely cut, with all possible lights of meaning, as a diamond:

"Dear Friend" [wrote Lucina],--"I beg you to accept my sympathy in
the disaster which has befallen your property, and I implore you not
to be disheartened, and not to consider me unmaidenly for signing
myself your ever faithful and constant friend, through all the joys
or vicissitudes of life.

"Lucina Merritt."

This letter, modelled after the fashion which Lucina had learned at
school, whereby she bound and laced over with set words and phrases,
as with a species of emotional stays, her love and pity, not
considering it decorous to give them full breath, filled Jerome with
happiness and despair. He understood that Colonel Lamson had betrayed
him, that Lucina, all unasked, had bound herself in love and
faithfulness to him through all his failing efforts.

"I won't have it--I won't have it!" he muttered, fiercely, but he
kissed the little letter with exulting r