orie! Wait till you see that letter."

"That letter! Why, confound it, you haven't seen it yourself yet."

"Oh, I know, I know. No need for me to open it. Look here, Macrorie,
will you promise not to throw me over after I tell you about this?"

"Throw you over?"

"Yes. You'll stick by a fellow still--"

"Stick by you? Of course, through thick and thin, my boy."

Jack gave a sigh of relief. "Well, old chap," said he, "you see, after
I left you, I was bent on nothing but Marion. The idea of her slipping
out of my hands altogether was intolerable. I was as jealous of you as
fury, and all that sort of thing. The widow and Miss Phillips were
forgotten. Even little Louie was given up. So I wrote a long letter to
Marion."

Jack paused, and looked hard at me.

"Well," said I.

"Well," said he, "you know her last letter to me was full of reproaches
about the widow and Miss Phillips. She even alluded to Louie, though
how under heaven she had heard about her is more than I can imagine.
Well, you know, I determined to write her a letter that would settle
all these difficulties, and at the same time gain her for myself, for
good and all. You see I had sworn to get her from you, and I could
think of nothing but that oath. So I wrote--but, oh, Macrorie,
Macrorie, why, in Heaven's name, did you make that mistake about Mrs.
O'Halloran, and force that infernal oath out of me? Why did that
confounded old blockhead forget to introduce her to you? That's the
cause of all my woes. But I won't bore you, old fellow; I'll go on. So,
you see, in my determination to get her, I stuck at nothing. First of
all, instead of attempting to explain away her reproaches, I turned
them all back upon her. I was an infatuated fool, Macrorie, when I
wrote that letter, but I was not a villain. I wrote it with an earnest
desire that it should be effective. Well, I told her that she should
not blame me for my gallantries, but herself for forcing me to them. I
reproached her for refusing to elope with me when I offered, and
told her she cared far more for her father's ease and comfort than she
did for my happiness. I swore that I loved her better than any of them,
or all of them put together, and I'll be hanged if I didn't, Macrorie,
when I wrote it. Finally, I told her there was yet time to save me,
and, if she had a particle of that love which she professed, I
implored her now to fly with me. I besought her to name some time
convenient to her, and sug