ve to speak first. You will never hear a word
of love from me again. Why should you? You know it is always waiting for
you. But if you should ever want it, you must come to me, and take off
your hat and put it on my table and say, 'Philip, I have come to stay.'
Whether you can ever do that or not can make no difference in my love
for you. I shall love you always, as no man has ever loved a woman in
this world, but it is you who must speak first; for me, the rest is
silence."

The following morning as Helen was leaving the house she found this
letter lying on the hall-table, and ran back with it to her rooms. A
week before she would have let it lie on the table and read it on her
return. She was conscious that this was what she would have done, and it
pleased her to find that what concerned Philip was now to her the thing
of greatest interest. She was pleased with her own eagerness--her own
happiness was a welcome sign, and she was proud and glad that she was
learning to care.

She read the letter with an anxious pride and pleasure in each word that
was entirely new. Philip's recriminations did not hurt her, they were
the sign that he cared; nor did his determination not to speak of his
love to her hurt her, for she believed him when he said that he would
always care. She read the letter twice, and then sat for some time
considering the kind of letter Philip would have written had he known
her secret--had he known that the ring he had abandoned was now upon her
finger.

She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer, and
then took it out again and re-read the last page. When she had finished
it she was smiling. For a moment she stood irresolute, and then, moving
slowly toward the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her and,
raising her hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins that
fastened her hat.

"Philip," she began in a frightened whisper, "I have--I have come to--"

The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she rushed across the room
as though she were running from herself. She was blushing violently.

"Never!" she cried, as she pulled open the door; "I could never do
it--never!"

The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll decided
that he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but that he
must be careful to subdue all emotion.

He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and had it not been that she
came on her own invitation he would not of his