ally giddy as she unfolded the page.

The writing was uncertain and angular; different indeed from the firm
smooth script that had accompanied the box of yellow roses in giving the
"definition of the meaning of _Flavia Rose_." The mute evidence of that
difficult left-handed task pierced the girl who loved Allan Gerard,
before she read the words.

The letter commenced abruptly, without superscription.

"I think you will know how hard it is for me to speak to you
calmly, even this way, across this distance, remembering how we
last met. To you I can confess what I could to no one else,
since there is now an end of concealment between us; that is,
that Allan Gerard is so weak as to feel shame at being a
cripple. So much so, that the idea is intolerable of first
remeeting you amidst your household's pitying curiosity. I never
used to know I had a personal vanity; I fancy it is not quite
that, but rather the humiliation of the man who has always been
well-dressed and who suddenly finds himself sent into public
sight in a shabby, tattered garment. I had accepted my physical
conventionality as part of my social equipment. I do not say
this in reproach to anyone or to affect you; I am perfectly sure
that you will not offer me the last insult of supposing so or of
answering me from that viewpoint. I say it only to excuse my
very great presumption in asking you to drive with Corrie to the
little railway station, to-morrow morning, to take leave of
him--and to tell me whether I am to come back. I want you to see
me as I am now, before you determine. Perhaps, left to my own
impulse of shielding you, I would have gone in silence, but
justice is higher than sentiment; you have the right to hear
what I must say and to answer it as you will.

"I am going to do my best for Corrie, whatever happens. Please
trust me so far, and if I have offended or seemed to fail in
this letter, remember my past months in excuse.

"Allan Gerard."

Flavia laid down the sheet of paper. In that moment she suffered less
from the destruction of her own happiness than from the destruction of
Gerard's. This cry out of his anguish to the one for whom alone he had
broken the stoical muteness in which he had wrapped his endured pain of
mind and body, this self-revelation that was the difficult baring of a
heart not used to show itself and avowal of weaknes