letter to write and it's not well done. If your attitude of
this afternoon is anything more than the delusion of anger--in
other words, if your love is not one of complete trust, it's better
that we shouldn't see each other again. If you can come in the
spirit that I can receive you, to-day can be erased as if it had
never happened--but until I have your answer (given after you have
searched your heart) I shall be--but that is neither here nor
there."

Tollman, who was taking supper at the manse that evening, noted the
pallor of her face, but made no comment. He had, in fact, already
divined a lover's quarrel and that was a thing into which even the most
friendly interference might well bring rebuff. But he was not surprised,
on leaving, to find Conscience waylaying him at the front door with an
envelope in her hand, which she asked him to post without fail in the
morning when after his invariable custom he drove to the village post
office. Within the last few days the invalid's irritability had taken
the form of intense dislike for the jingle of the telephone and in
deference to his whim it had been disconnected. Consequently the family
friend had of late both mailed and delivered notes between the lovers
and knew the handwriting of each.

That night Stuart slept not at all. For hours after he reached his room
in the hotel he paced it frantically. First cumulative anger, long held
in leash, swept him like a forest fire, charring his reason into
unreason. He had fought for Conscience and lost her. She had thrown her
lot with the narrow minds and cast him adrift. He had placed all his
trust in her and she had failed to rise above her heritage. But as the
night wore on a nauseating reaction of self-indictment followed. He saw
that he had grossly affronted her and brutally accused her. The
generosity and fairness he worshiped had had no part in his conduct. He,
too, spent hours writing, destroying and rewriting letters.

At last he let one stand.

"But, dearest," he said at its end, "if you _do_ let me come back,
you must still let me fight--not with temper and accusation, but
patiently--against the strangling of your life. After this
afternoon there can be no middle ground. I stand before you so
discredited that unless you love me enough to forgive me you must
hate me wholly and completely. If it's hate, I have earned it--and
more, but if it _c