ingly. "She can't take
those away from you again!"

"Hush," he warned. "You must never blame her for anything."

"You mean you still--"

"Still and forever, little sister," he answered. "But we must not talk
of that."

"Poor Peter," she trembled.

"Rich Peter!" he corrected, with a wan smile. "There are so many who
have n't as much as that."

He went back to his room. The next thing to do was to write some sort
of explanation to Covington. His ears burned as he thought of the
other letter he had sent. How it must have bored into the man! How it
must have hurt! He had been forced to read the confession of love of
another man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not taken the
next train back and knocked down the writer. It must be that he
understood the hopelessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled!
Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had gripped his jaws and
stood it.

But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, he was to have it now.
He, Noyes, had bared his soul to the husband and confessed a love that
now he must stand up and recant. That was punishment enough for any
man. He must do that, too, without violating any of Marjory's
confidences--without helping in any way to disentangle the pitiful
snarl that it was within his power to disentangle. She whose happiness
might partly have recompensed him for what he had to do, he must still
leave unhappy. As far as he himself was concerned, however, he was
entitled to tell the truth. He could not recant his love. That would
be false. But he had no right to it--that was what he must make
Covington understand.

_Dear Covington_ [he began]: I am writing this with my eyes open. The
miracle I spoke of came to pass. Also a great many other things have
come to pass. You'll realize how hard it is to write about them after
that other letter, when I tell you I have learned the truth: that
Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She told me herself, when our relations
reached a crisis where she had to tell.

I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of apology; and yet, when
I come to frame it, I find myself baffled. Of course I'm leaving for
home as soon as possible--probably to-morrow. Of course if I had known
the truth I should have left long ago, and that letter would never have
had any occasion for being written. I'm assuming, Covington, that you
will believe that without any question. You knew what I did not know
and di