reat simplicity, it was vague and
unformulated. And it was a part of this strange simplicity that in his
miserable loneliness his thoughts turned unconsciously to his dead wife
for sympathy and consolation. Loo would have understood him!

Mr. Fletcher, who had received him on his arrival with singular
effusiveness and cordiality, had put off their final arrangements until
after dinner, on account of pressing business. It was therefore with
some surprise that an hour before the time he was summoned to Fletcher's
room. He was still more surprised to find him sitting at his desk, from
which a number of business papers and letters had been hurriedly thrust
aside to make way for a manuscript. A single glance at it was enough
to show the unhappy John Milton that it was the one he had sent to Mrs.
Ashwood. The color flashed to his cheek and he felt a mist before his
eyes. His employer's face, on the contrary, was quite pale, and his
eyes were fixed on Harcourt with a singular intensity. His voice too,
although under great control, was hard and strange.

"Read that," he said, handing the young man a letter.

The color again streamed into John Milton's face as he recognized the
hand of Mrs. Ashwood, and remained there while he read it. When he put
it down, however, he raised his frank eyes to Fletcher's, and said with
a certain dignity and manliness: "What she says is the truth, sir. But
it is I alone who am at fault. This manuscript is merely MY stupid idea
of a very simple story she was once kind enough to tell me when we were
talking of strange occurrences in real life, which she thought I might
some time make use of in my work. I tried to embellish it, and failed.
That's all. I will take it back,--it was written only for her."

There was such an irresistible truthfulness and sincerity in his voice
and manner, that any idea of complicity with the sender was dismissed
from Fletcher's mind. As Harcourt, however, extended his hand for the
manuscript Fletcher interfered.

"You forget that you gave it to her, and she has sent it to me. If I
don't keep it, it can be returned to her only. Now may I ask who is this
lady who takes such an interest in your literary career? Have you known
her long? Is she a friend of your family?"

The slight sneer that accompanied his question restored the natural
color to the young man's face, but kindled his eye ominously.

"No," he said briefly. "I met her accidentally about two months ago and