eech, for Joan had stood up and was moving
across the room, her eyes fastened on the letter in his hands. She had
the air of a sleep-walker.

She opened a drawer of her desk, took out an old tin box, once used
for tobacco, and drew forth a small, gray envelope torn in two. Then
she came back to him and said, "Let me see that letter," and he obeyed
as though she had the right to ask.

She took his letter and hers and compared the two, the small, gray
squares lying unopened on her knee, and she spoke incomprehensibly.

"Betty is 'the tall child,'" she said, and laughed with a catch in her
breath.

Jasper looked at the envelopes. They were identical; Betty's gray
note-paper crossed by Betty's angular, upright hand, very bold, very
black. The torn envelope was addressed to Prosper Gael. Jasper took
it, opened each half, laid the parts together, and read:

Jasper is dying. By the time you get this he will be dead. If
you can forgive me for having failed you in courage last year,
come back. What I have been to you before I will be again, only,
this time, we can love openly. Come back.

"Jane,"--Morena spoke brokenly,--"what does it mean?"

"He built that cabin in Wyoming for her," said Joan, speaking as
though Jasper had seen the canyon hiding-place and known its history,
"and she didn't come. He brought me there on his sled. I was hurt. I
was terribly hurt. He took care of me--"

"Prosper?" Jasper thrust in. His face was drawn with excitement.

"Yes. Prosper Gael. I was there with him for months. At first I wasn't
strong enough to go away, and then, after a while, I tried. But I was
too lonely and sorrowful. In the spring I loved him. I thought I loved
him. He wanted me. I was all alone in the world. I didn't know that he
loved another woman. I thought she was dead--like Pierre. Prosper had
clothes for her there. I suppose--I've thought it out since--that she
was to leave as if for a short journey, and then secretly go on that
long one, and she couldn't take many things with her. So he had
beautiful stuffs for her--and a little suit to wear in the snow.
That's how I came to call her 'the tall child,' seeing that little
suit, long and narrow.... This letter came one morning, one awfully
bright morning. He read it and went out and the next day he went away.
Afterwards I found the letter torn in two beside his desk on the
floor. I took it and I've always kept it. 'The tall child'! He looked
so terrible when I