he face. She was white, now, to the
lips. "Yes," she lied. "It is that more than anything else."

"Why, my dear girl! I thought----"

"So did I. We were both mistaken, that is all."

"And you really don't love me?"

"Not in the least."

Alden laughed--a little mirthless, mocking laugh. It is astonishing,
sometimes, how deeply a man may be hurt through his vanity. Rosemary had
turned away, and he called her back.

"Won't you kiss me good-bye?" he asked, with a new humility.

Then Rosemary laughed, too, but her laugh was also mirthless. "No," she
answered, in a tone from which there was no appeal. "Why should I?"
Before he realised it, she was gone.

He went back to the log and sat down to think. This last tryst with
Rosemary had been a surprise in more ways than one. He had been afraid
that she would be angry, or hurt, and she had been neither. He had come
to ask for freedom and she had given it to him without asking, because
she could not leave Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, and because she did
not love him. He could understand the first reason, but the latter
seemed very strange. Yet Rosemary had looked him straight in the face
and he had never known her to lie. He had a new emotion toward her; not
exactly respect, but something more than that.

[Sidenote: A Letter for Edith]

Then, with a laugh, he straightened his shoulders. He had what he
wanted, though it had not come in the way he thought it would. If he had
been obliged to ask her to release him, he would have felt worse than he
did now. The letter in his pocket, heavy with portent, asserted itself
imperiously. He hurried home, feeling very chivalrous.

Edith, cool and fresh in white linen, with one of the last of the red
roses thrust into her belt, was rocking on the veranda, with a book in
her lap which she had made no pretence of reading. Two or three empty
chairs were near her, but Madame was nowhere to be seen. Alden handed
her the letter. "I'm free!" he said, exultantly.

Edith smiled, then, with shaking hands, tore open the letter. Alden
eagerly watched her as she turned the closely written pages, but her
face was inscrutable. She read every word carefully, until she reached
the signature. Then she looked up.

"I'm not," she said, briefly. She tossed the letter to him, and went
into the house. He heard her light feet upon the stairs and the rustle
of her skirts as she ascended. Perfume persisted in the place she had
just left--the rose at he