igorously
into the room.

"You're the lucky one, Marion," he said.

He fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a letter. She took it,
glanced at it, and let it fall into her lap. A great stillness seemed
to have come upon the world. She appeared to be looking at Seth and
Claire across great distances. She could hear her heart pounding in
her bosom, like something that hammered for freedom. Ages seemed to
have passed before she was able to rise slowly, to smile, to beg to be
excused a moment. In her room she stood quite still, mechanically tore
open the envelope, and read:

Dear Marion: You told me not to write, and I have obeyed till now.
Don't scold, please! You see I am in Denver. It's business.
Honest! A mining deal, just for a flyer. It may mean millions or
nothing. I am here for several days, possibly weeks. Won't you
_please_ let me run up to see you? Don't say no, Marion. I promise
to be good. I have an auto here, and they tell me the roads are
O. K. at this season. I'll come away the minute you tell me to. If
I can see you only for an hour it will make me very happy.

Yours always,
Robert.

She read it twice, while the color slowly returned to her cheeks. Then
the letter faded from her sight, and she saw a face that wore a cruel
smile, and heard a voice that bade her begone. And suddenly a wave of
resentment, of anger, swept over her. To have been scorned, flouted,
humiliated by one to whom--And here was a man who wanted her as he
wanted nothing else in the world, who would toil for her, die for her,
who would treasure every word and smile she should consent to give
him, whose one desire was to make her happy. What madness had come
over her that she--she the Viking's daughter--Her eyes were drawn, she
knew not how, to the columbines that she had carefully, tenderly
arranged in a bowl on her dressing table. In a passion she rushed upon
them, snatched them up dripping, bore them to the open window, and
flung them with all her strength out upon the lawn. A moment she stood
looking at them, her hands clutched upon her heaving breast, her whole
body quivering with the storm that raged within her. Then she whirled
around, flung herself down at her little writing table, and wrote:

Dear Robert: Yes, come. MARION.

Her hand trembled now so that she could scarcely address the envelo