women folks
don't always have it. Now you can do jest as you think best, but you
must remember one thing--riches ain't all. A little likin' for you
that's goin' to last, and keep honest and faithful to you as long as
you live, is worth more; an' it's worth more to women folks than 't
is to men, an' it's worth enough to them. My son's poorly. His mother
and I are worried about him. He don't eat nor sleep--walks his
chamber nights. His mother don't know what the matter is, but he let
on to me some time since."

"I'll write a letter to him," gasped Evelina again. "Good-night,
sir." She pulled her little black silk shawl over her head and
hastened home, and all night long her candle burned, while her weary
little fingers toiled over pages of foolscap-paper to convince Thomas
Merriam fully, and yet in terms not exceeding maidenly reserve, that
the love of his heart and the companionship of his life were worth
more to her than all the silver and gold in the world. Then the next
morning she despatched it, all neatly folded and sealed, and waited.

It was strange that a letter like that could not have moved Thomas
Merriam, when his heart too pleaded with him so hard to be moved. But
that might have been the very reason why he could withstand her, and
why the consciousness of his own weakness gave him strength. Thomas
Merriam was one, when he had once fairly laid hold of duty, to grasp
it hard, although it might be to his own pain and death, and maybe to
that of others. He wrote to poor young Evelina another letter, in
which he emphasized and repeated his strict adherence to what he
believed the line of duty in their separation, and ended it with a
prayer for her welfare and happiness, in which, indeed, for a second,
the passionate heart of the man showed forth. Then he locked himself
in his chamber, and nobody ever knew what he suffered there. But one
pang he did not suffer which Evelina would have suffered in his
place. He mourned not over nor realized the grief of her tender heart
when she should read his letter, otherwise he could not have sent it.
He writhed under his own pain alone, and his duty hugged him hard,
like the iron maiden of the old tortures, but he would not yield.

As for Evelina, when she got his letter, and had read it through, she
sat still and white for a long time, and did not seem to hear when
old Sarah Judd spoke to her. But at last she rose and went to her
chamber, and knelt down, and prayed for a