so delicately oval her flushed cheeks. He felt that she was frightened
and in trouble, and he wanted to comfort and reassure her. But how
could she be Sidney Richmond?

"I don't understand," he said perplexedly.

"Oh!" Sidney threw out her hands in a burst of passionate protest.
"No, and you never will understand--I can't make you understand."

"I don't understand," said John Lincoln again. "Can you be Sidney
Richmond--the Sidney Richmond who has written to me for four years?"

"I am."

"Then, those letters--"

"Were all lies," said Sidney bluntly and desperately. "There was
nothing true in them--nothing at all. This is my home. We are poor.
Everything I told you about it and my life was just imagination."

"Then why did you write them?" he asked blankly. "Why did you deceive
me?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to deceive you! I never thought of such a thing.
When you asked me to write to you I wanted to, but I didn't know what
to write about to a stranger. I just couldn't write you about my life
here, not because it was hard, but it was so ugly and empty. So I
wrote instead of the life I wanted to live--the life I did live in
imagination. And when once I had begun, I had to keep it up. I found
it so fascinating, too! Those letters made that other life seem real
to me. I never expected to meet you. These last four days since your
letter came have been dreadful to me. Oh, please go away and forgive
me if you can! I know I can never make you understand how it came
about."

Sidney turned away and hid her burning face against the cool white
bark of the birch tree behind her. It was worse than she had even
thought it would be. He was so handsome, so manly, so earnest-eyed!
Oh, what a friend to lose!

John Lincoln opened the gate and went up to her. There was a great
tenderness in his face, mingled with a little kindly, friendly
amusement.

"Please don't distress yourself so, Sidney," he said, unconsciously
using her Christian name. "I think I do understand. I'm not such a
dull fellow as you take me for. After all, those letters were
true--or, rather, there was truth in them. You revealed yourself more
faithfully in them than if you had written truly about your narrow
outward life."

Sidney turned her flushed face and wet eyes slowly toward him, a
little smile struggling out amid the clouds of woe. This young man was
certainly good at understanding. "You--you'll forgive me then?" she
stammered.

"Yes, if there is an