rd went on.

"My uncle never married. He and his sister Jean lived together until
her late marriage. I was not very fond of my grandmother. She was a
selfish, domineering woman--very unlike the grandmother of tradition.
When she died everything she possessed came to me, as my father, her
only child, was then dead. In looking over a box of old papers I found
a letter--an old love letter. I read it with some interest, wondering
whose it could be and how it came among Grandmother's private letters.
It was signed 'Stephen,' so that I guessed my great-uncle had been the
writer, but I had no idea who the Sally was to whom it was written,
until the other day. Then I knew it was you--and I went home to bring
you your letter--the letter you should have received long ago. Why
you did not receive it I cannot explain. I fear that my grandmother
must have been to blame for that--she must have intercepted and kept
the letter in order to part her brother and you. In so far as I can I
wish to repair the wrong she has done you. I know it can never be
repaired--but at least I think this letter will take the bitterness
out of the memory of your lover."

He dropped the letter in Miss Sally's lap and went away.

Pale, Miss Sally picked it up and read it. It was from Stephen Merritt
to "dearest Sally," and contained a frank, manly avowal of love. Would
she be his wife? If she would, let her write and tell him so. But if
she did not and could not love him, let her silence reveal the bitter
fact; he would wish to spare her the pain of putting her refusal into
words, and if she did not write he would understand that she was not
for him.

When Willard and Joyce came back into the twilight room they found
Miss Sally still sitting by the table, her head leaning pensively on
her hand. She had been crying--the cobwebby handkerchief lay beside
her, wrecked and ruined forever--but she looked very happy.

"I wonder if you know what you have done for me," she said to Willard.
"But no--you can't know--you can't realize it fully. It means
everything to me. You have taken away my humiliation and restored to
me my pride of womanhood. He really loved me--he was not false--he was
what I believed him to be. Nothing else matters to me at all now. Oh,
I am very happy--but it would never have been if I had not consented
to give you Joyce."

She rose and took their hands in hers, joining them.

"God bless you, dears," she said softly. "I believe you will b