been a word--a word between us since--since the news came
that you were--I told him--I said--And he has been splendid! Splendid!
And now you say--Oh, what AM I saying? What SHALL I do?"

She collapsed once more among the cushions. He leaned forward.

"My dear girl--" he began, but she broke in.

"I HAVEN'T been disloyal," she cried. "I have tried--Oh, I have tried so
hard--"

"Hush, Madeline, hush. I understand. I understand perfectly. It is all
right, really it is."

"And I should have kept on trying always--always."

"Yes, dear, yes. But do you think a married life with so much trying in
it likely to be a happy one? It is better to know it now, isn't it, a
great deal better for both of us? Madeline, I am going to my room. I
want you to think, to think over all this, and then we will talk
again. I don't blame you. I don't, dear, really. I think I realize
everything--all of it. Good night, dear."

He stooped and kissed her. She sobbed, but that was all. The next
morning a servant came to his room with a parcel and a letter. The
parcel was a tiny one. It was the ring he had given her, in its case.
The letter was short and much blotted. It read:

Dear Albert:

I have thought and thought, as you told me to, and I have concluded that
you were right. It IS best to know it now. Forgive me, please, PLEASE. I
feel wicked and horrid and I HATE myself, but I think this is best. Oh,
do forgive me. Good-by.

MADELINE.

His reply was longer. At its end he wrote:

Of course I forgive you. In the first place there is nothing to forgive.
The unforgivable thing would have been the sacrifice of your happiness
and your future to a dream and a memory. I hope you will be very happy.
I am sure you will be, for Blanchard is, I know, a fine fellow. The best
of fortune to you both.

The next forenoon he sat once more in the car of the morning train for
Cape Cod, looking out of the window. He had made the journey from New
York by the night boat and had boarded the Cape train at Middleboro. All
the previous day, and in the evening as he tramped the cold wind-swept
deck of the steamer, he had been trying to collect his thoughts, to
readjust them to the new situation, to comprehend in its entirety the
great change that had come in his life. The vague plans, the happy
indefinite dreams, all the rainbows and roses had gone, shivered to bits
like the reflection in a broken mirror. Madeline, his Madeline, was his
no longer. No