ey deserved. He pitied the
latter; poor soul, doubtless HE had never known the greater love.

He and Madeline had agreed that they would tell no one--no one at
all--of their betrothal. It should be their own precious secret for the
present. So, under the circumstances, he could not write Helen the
news. But ought he to write her at all? That question bothered him not
a little. He no longer loved her--in fact, he was now certain that he
never had loved her--but he liked her, and he wanted her to keep on
liking him. And she wrote to him with regularity. What ought he to do
about writing her?

He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with some
trepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter. Her
opinion was decisive and promptly given. Of course he must not write
Helen again. "How would you like it if I corresponded with another
fellow?" she asked. Candor forced him to admit that he should not like
it at all. "But I want to behave decently," he said. "She is merely a
friend of mine"--oh, how short is memory!--"but we have been friends for
a long time and I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings." "No, instead
you prefer to hurt mine." "Now, dearest, be reasonable." It was their
nearest approach to a quarrel and was a very, very sad affair.
The making-up was sweet, of course, but the question of further
correspondence with Helen Kendall remained just where it was at the
beginning. And, meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed.

September came far, far too soon--came and ended. And with it ended
also the stay of the Fosdicks in South Harniss. Albert and Madeline said
good-by at their rendezvous by the beach. It was a sad, a tearful, but
a very precious farewell. They would write each other every day, they
would think of each other every minute of every day, they would live
through the winter somehow and look forward to the next spring and their
next meeting.

"You will write--oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?"
begged Madeline. "You know how I love them. And whenever I see one of
your poems in print I shall be so proud of you--of MY poet."

Albert promised to write ever and ever so many. He felt that there would
be no difficulty in writing reams of poems--inspired, glorious poems.
The difficulty would be in restraining himself from writing too many
of them. With Madeline Fosdick as an inspiration, poetizing became as
natural as breathing.

Then, which was unusual for them, they spo