urse; it is a painful disease which becomes chronic. It does not take
long to forget the days of the week and the months of the year when
time brings no variance. David drugged himself on dreams. He knew it was
weakness, but it was the wine of forgetfulness, and he indulged in it.
He went over and over, in endless repetition, every scene in which Zoe
Le Baron had figured.

He learned by a paper that she had gone to Europe. He was glad of that.
For there were hours in which he imagined that his fate might have
caused her distress--not much, of course, but perhaps an occasional hour
of sympathetic regret. But it was pleasanter not to think of that. He
preferred to remember the hours they had spent together while she was
teaching him the joy of life.

How lovely her gray eyes were! Deep, yet bright, and full of silent
little speeches. The rooms in which he imagined her as moving were
always splendid; the gowns she wore were of rustling silk. He never in
any dream, waking or sleeping, associated her with poverty or sorrow or
pain. Gay and beautiful, she moved from city to city, in these visions
of David's, looking always at wonderful things, and finding laughter in
every happening.

It was six months after his entrance into his silent abode that a letter
came for him.

"By rights, Culross," said the warden, "I should not give this letter
to you. It isn't the sort we approve of. But you're in for a good spell,
and if there is anything that can make life seem more tolerable, I don't
know but you're entitled to it. At least, I'm not the man to deny it to
you."

This was the letter:--

"MY DEAR FRIEND,--I hope you do not think that all these months, when
you have been suffering so terribly, I have been thinking of other
things! But I am sure you know the truth. You know that I could not send
you word or come to see you, or I would have done it. When I first heard
of what you had done, I saw it all as it happened,--that dreadful scene,
I mean, in the saloon. I am sure I have imagined everything just as it
was. I begged papa to help you, but he was very angry. You see, papa was
so peculiar. He thought more of the appearances of things, perhaps, than
of facts. It infuriated him to think of me as being concerned about you
or with you. I did not know he could be so angry, and his anger did not
die, but for days it cast such a shadow over me that I used to wish I
was dead. Only I would not disobey him, and now I am glad of tha