repaid the miracle of Evelyn's tenderness with the
whole of an ardent heart.

To her elders, the years went fast. Suddenly, as it seemed, Marvel was
a young woman with more than her fair {157} share of gifts and graces.
She was exquisitely pretty, with an effective little style of her own;
she made a brilliant record as a student; she had the rich endowment
of easy popularity. Further, she seemed to possess, so far as slight
experiments could demonstrate, that rare thing, the genuine teacher's
gift. Something of her father's passion for scholarship, something of
her mother's silver-lipped persuasiveness, met in the girl and mingled
with certain deep convictions of her own.

The practical outcome of all this was the suggestion that her Alma
Mater, Midwest, would be glad to attach her to its teaching force
without insisting upon an additional degree. She had spent one year
abroad since her graduation, part of which was occupied in study. But,
like many young Americans, she found her own {158} reflections on the
Old World more stimulating than any instruction offered her there.

Now she was at home, ready to begin work in September, enthusiastic,
almost effervescent, with her satisfaction in the arrangement of her
own little world.

Coming into the shaded house, out of the blaze of the July sunshine,
she dropped her father's letters on the desk in his study, and ran
upstairs to read her own. It was quite an hour before she heard him
calling at the foot of the stair,--

"Marvel! Come down, daughter, I want you."

Something in his voice--she did not know what--gave her a thrill of
apprehension. She had never heard just that tone from him before.

{159}

She found Professor and Mrs. Charleroy waiting for her in the
living-room. Their faces were grave and troubled. Marvel's
apprehensive pang mingled with a curious little resentment that her
nearest and dearest could allow themselves to look thus, all on a
summer morning, in this highly satisfactory world.

"Daughter, I have a letter here," her father began at once, "a letter
from your mother. It concerns you more than any one. The question it
involves is one for you to decide. I ought not to conceal from you my
belief that you will need to consider the matter very carefully."

Marvel took the letter with gravity, hoping that this portentous
seriousness was misplaced. This is what she read:--

MY DEAR PAUL,--You remember, of course, that when we separated, it