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deliberation。 It contained a manuscript and a letter of four
closely written pages。 She glanced at the manuscript with bright
approving eyes； ran her fingers through its leaves and then laid it
carefully and somewhat ostentatiously on the table beside her。
Then； still holding the letter in her hand； she rose and glanced
out of the window at her bored brother lounging towards the beach
and at the heaving billows beyond； and returned to her seat。 This
apparently important preliminary concluded； she began to read。
There were； as already stated； four blessed pages of it！ All
vital； earnest； palpitating with youthful energy； preposterous in
premises； precipitate in conclusions；yet irresistible and
convincing to every woman in their illogical sincerity。 There was
not a word of love in it； yet every page breathed a wholesome
adoration； there was not an epithet or expression that a greater
prude than Mrs。 Ashwood would have objected to； yet every sentence
seemed to end in a caress。 There was not a line of poetry in it；
and scarcely a figure or simile； and yet it was poetical。 Boyishly
egotistic as it was in attitude； it seemed to be written less OF
himself than TO her； in its delicate because unconscious flattery；
it made her at once the provocation and excuse。 And yet so potent
was its individuality that it required no signature。 No one but
John Milton Harcourt could have written it。 His personality stood
out of it so strongly that once or twice Mrs。 Ashwood almost
unconsciously put up her little hand before her face with a half
mischievous； half…deprecating smile； as if the big honest eyes of
its writer were upon her。
It began by an elaborate apology for declining the appointment
offered him by one of her friends； which he was bold enough to
think had been prompted by her kind heart。 That was like her； but
yet what she might do to any one； and he preferred to think of her
as the sweet and gentle lady who had recognized his merit without
knowing him； rather than the powerful and gracious benefactress who
wanted to reward him when she did know him。 The crown that she had
all unconsciously placed upon his head that afternoon at the little
hotel at Crystal Spring was more to him than the Senator's
appointment； perhaps he was selfish； but he could not bear that she
who had given so much should believe that he could accept a lesser
gift。 All this and much more！ Some of it he had wanted to say to
her in San Francisco at times when they had met； but he could not
find the words。 But she had given him the courage to go on and do
the only thing he was fit for； and he had resolved to stick to
that； and perhaps do something once more that might make him hear
again her voice as he had heard it that day； and again see the
light that had shone in her eyes as she sat there and read。 And
this was why he was sending her a manuscript。 She might have
forgotten that she had told him a strange story of her cousin who
had disappearedwhich she thought he might at some time work up。
Here it was。 Perhaps she might not recognize it again； in the way
he had written it here； perhaps she did not really mean it when she
had given him permission to use it； but he remembered her truthful
eyes and believed herand in any event it was hers to do with what
she liked。 It had been a great pleasure for him to write it and
think that she would see it； it was like seeing her himselfthat
was in HIS BETTER SELFmore worthy the companionship of a
beautiful and noble woman than the poor young man she would have
helped。 This was why he had not called the week before she went
away。 But for all that； she had made his life less lonely； and he
should be ever grateful to her。 He could never forget how she
unconsciously sympathized with him that day over the loss that had
blighted his life forever；yet even then he did not know that she；
herself； had passed through the same suffering。 But just here the
stricken widow of thirty； after a vain attempt to keep up the
knitted gravity of her eyebrows； bowed her dimpling face over the
letter of the blighted widower of twenty； and laughed so long and
silently that the tears stood out like dew on her light…brown
eyelashes。
But she became presently severe again； and finished her reading of
the letter gravely。 Then she folded it carefully； deposited it in
a box on her table； which she locked。 After a few minutes；
however； she unlocked the box again and transferred the letter to
her pocket。 The serenity of her features did not relax again；
although her previous pretty prepossession of youthful spirit was
still indicated in her movements。 Going into her bedroom； she
reappeared in a few minutes with a light cloak thrown over her
shoulders and a white…trimmed broad…brimmed hat。 Then she rolled
up the manuscript in a paper； and called her French maid。 As she
stood there awaiting her with the roll in her hand； she might have
been some young girl on her way to her music lesson。
〃If my brother returns before I do； tell him to wait。〃
〃Madame is going〃
〃Out；〃 said Mrs。 Ashwood blithely； and tripped downstairs。
She made her way directly to the shore where she remembered there
was a group of rocks affording a shelter from the northwest trade
winds。 It was reached at low water by a narrow ridge of sand； and
here she had often basked in the sun with her book。 It was here
that she now unrolled John Milton's manuscript and read。
It was the story she had told him； but interpreted by his poetry
and adorned by his fancy until the facts as she remembered them
seemed to be no longer hers； or indeed truths at all。 She had
always believed her cousin's unhappy temperament to have been the
result of a moral and physical idiosyncrasy；she found it here to
be the effect of a lifelong and hopeless passion for herself！ The
ingenious John Milton had given a poet's precocity to the youth
whom she had only known as a suspicious； moody boy； had idealized
him as a sensitive but songless Byron； had given him the added
infirmity of pulmonary weakness； and a handkerchief that in moments
of great excitement； after having been hurriedly pressed to his
pale lips； was withdrawn 〃with a crimson stain。〃 Opposed to this
interesting figurethe more striking to her as she had been
hitherto haunted by the impression that her cousin during his
boyhood had been subject to facial eruption and boilswas her own
equally idealized self。 Cruelly kind to her cousin and gentle with
his weaknesses while calmly ignoring their cause； leading him
unconsciously step by step in his fatal passion； he only became
aware by accident that she nourished an ideal hero in the person of
a hard； proud； middle…aged practical man of the world；her future
husband！ At this picture of the late Mr。 Ashwood； who had really
been an indistinctive social bon vivant； his amiable relict grew
somewhat hysterical。 The discovery of her real feelings drove the
consumptive cousin into a secret； self…imposed exile on the shores
of the Pacific； where he hoped to find a grave。 But the complete
and sudden change of life and scene； the balm of the wild woods and
the wholesome barbarism of nature； wrought a magical change in his
physical health and a philosophical rest in his mind。 He married
the daughter of an Indian chief。 Years passed； the heroinea rich
and still young and beautiful widowunwittingly sought the same
medicinal solitude。 Here in the depth of the forest she encountered
her former playmate； the passion which he had fondly supposed was
dead revived in her presence； and for the first time she learned
from his bearded lips the secret of his passion。 Alas！ not SHE
alone！ The contiguous forest could not be bolted out； and the
Indian wife heard all。 Recognizing the situation with aboriginal
directness of purpose； she committed suicide in the fond belief that
it would reunite the survivors。 But in vain； the cousins parted on
the spot to meet no more。
Even Mrs。 Ashwood's predilection for the youthful writer could not
overlook the fact that the denouement was by no means novel nor the
situation human； but yet it was here that she was most interested
and fascinated。 The description of the forest was a description
of the wood where she had first met Harcourt； the charm of it
returned； until she almost seemed to again inhale its balsamic
freshness in the pages before her。 Now； as then； her youth came
back with the same longing and regret。 But more bewildering than
all； it was herself that moved there； painted with the loving hand
of the narrator。 For the first time she experienced the delicious
flattery of seeing herself as only a lover could see her。 The
smallest detail of her costume was suggested with an accuracy that
pleasantly thrilled her feminine sense。 The grace of her figure
slowly moving through the shadow； the curves of her arm and the
delicacy of