very
circumstance of his parting argued a long absence, a discreet
obliteration of self. But Penelope left the valley in prosaic fashion,
in a livery wagon, with a man as easy to find as his own bustling,
pushing town; yet the dust-clouds which closed around them as they
drove away shut them from my ken as the mountains had enclosed her
father in their most secret hiding-places. It was the fault of Rufus
Blight. He had blown beautiful bubbles to divert us in those last
hours of his visit, and bubbles bursting silently into nothingness were
not more fragile than his promises. To the true value of those
promises I awoke slowly, as the months went by and there came no hint
of their fulfilment.

I wrote to Penelope. My letters would have made volumes were their
length commensurate with the pain of composition. Even the heart of
Rufus Blight would have been touched could he have seen me, bent over a
table, digging my teeth into my tongue and my pen into the paper as
letter by letter and word by word I constructed those messages of my
boyish love. But he knew only the finished gem, and not the labor of
its cutting. The more I sought to break the silence, the surer I
became that he, the omnipotent one, had ordained it, and I fancied him
reading my letters and destroying them, a thin smile lighting his
chubby face as he thought of the easy way in which I was being
outwitted. I went to my mother for help. She knew nothing of my
unavailing struggles, and was herself offended and heart-sick. At my
entreaty she overcame her pride and wrote to Mr. Blight inquiring as to
Penelope's welfare. In return her existence was recognized; hardly
more than that, for the great man did not trouble himself with a
personal answer. His reply was given vicariously, through one P. T.
Mallencroft, his secretary, on flawless paper, three sentences in bold
clear type and a Spencerian signature closing it. It was a bloodless
thing. It spoke the commands of omnipotence as though carved on
tablets of stone.

Mrs. Malcolm's favor of the 10th ultimo was acknowledged; Mr. Blight
instructed Mr. Mallencroft to thank Mrs. Malcolm for the interest which
she had shown, and to assure her that Miss Penelope was quite well.

It was perfectly polite. It was the finished bow with which Rufus
Blight was backing from our presence, never to trouble us again. I
knew this when I saw the sheet drop from my mother's limp fingers and,
sinking to a chair, s