ate
apologies in her habitually soft, small voice.

'Oh, please forgive me, Mr. Freydon! I know it was a liberty. Please
do forgive me. I will never do it again. Please say you will overlook
it, and--and not tell my mother.'

She unmistakably shrank, trembling, almost cowering before me, so that
I was made to feel a dreadful brute.

'My dear Fanny,' I said, touching her arm with my fingers, 'there's
nothing to forgive. How absurd! I hope you will always sit there
whenever you like. As though I should mind! But what were you
reading?'

The question had no point for me, and was designed merely to relieve
the tension.

'Oh, your story, Mr. Freydon. It's--it's too beautiful. That was what
made me forget where I was, and sit on here. I just glanced at it--like;
and then--and I couldn't leave it. Oh!'

And she drew up her apron and dabbed her eyes. I don't believe the
poor soul possessed a handkerchief. Here was a pretty pass then! I had
forgotten for the moment that one of the three magazines on the table
contained a short story of which, upon its appearance, I had been
inordinately proud. I was young, and no one else flattered me.
Literally nobody had shared my gratification in the publication of
this story. Here was somebody from whom it drew indubitable tears;
some one who was deeply moved by its beauty....

I patted her shoulder. I drew confidences from her regarding the
wretchedness of her home life. I laid down emphatic instructions that
she was to regard my room as her sanctuary; to use it whenever and
howsoever she might choose, irrespective of my presence or absence. I
bade her make free with my few books--as though the poor soul had
abundance of leisure--comforted her to the best of my ability; and-- Yes,
let me evade nothing. I stroked her hair, and in leaving her, with
reiterated instructions to remain there and rest, I touched her cool
white cheek with my lips, and was strangely thrilled by the touch.

A warm wave of what I thought pity and sympathy passed over me as I
walked from her.

VIII

It is rather a matter of regret with me now that I never kept a diary.
Mine has been upon the whole a somewhat lonely life, and lonely men
often do keep diaries. But, in my case, I suppose writing was too much
the daily business of life to permit of leisure being given to the
same task.

However, the dates of certain volumes of short stories, which appeared
long ago with my name upon their covers, are fo