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“I dare say he’s like all the rest–when his aim is attained the prize loses its value,” reflected Miss Sally pessimistically. “Poor Joyce–poor child! But there–there isn’t a single inharmonious thing in his house–that is one comfort. I’m so thankful I didn’t let Willard buy those brocade chairs he wanted. They would have given Joyce the nightmare.”

Meanwhile, Willard rushed down to the biological station and from there drove furiously to the station to catch the evening express. He did not return until three days later, when he appeared at Miss Sally’s, dusty and triumphant.

“Joyce is out,” said Miss Sally.

“I’m glad of it,” said Willard recklessly. “It’s you I want to see, Miss Sally. I have something to show you. I’ve been all the way home to get it.”

From his pocketbook Willard drew something folded and creased and yellow that looked like a letter. He opened it carefully and, holding it in his fingers, looked over it at Miss Sally.

“My grandmother’s maiden name was Jean Merritt,” he said deliberately, “and Stephen Merritt was my great-uncle. I never saw him–he died when I was a child–but I’ve heard my father speak of him often.”

Miss Sally turned very pale. She passed her cobwebby handkerchief across her lips and her hand trembled. Willard went on.

“My uncle never married. He and his sister Jean lived together until her late marriage. I was not very fond of my grandmother. She was a selfish, domineering woman–very unlike the grandmother of tradition. When she died everything she possessed came to me, as my father, her only child, was then dead. In looking over a box of old papers I found a letter–an old love letter. I read it with some interest, wondering whose it could be and how it came among Grandmother’s private letters. It was signed ‘Stephen,’ so that I guessed my great-uncle had been the writer, but I had no idea who the Sally was to whom it was written, until the other day. Then I knew it was you–and I went home to bring you your letter–the letter you should have received long ago. Why you did not receive it I cannot explain. I fear that my grandmother must have been to blame for that–she must have intercepted and kept the letter in order to part her brother and you. In so far as I can I wish to repair the wrong she has done you. I know it can never be repaired–but at least I think this letter will take the bitterness out of the memory of your lover.”

He dropped the letter in Miss Sally’s lap and went away.

Pale, Miss Sally picked it up and read it. It was from Stephen Merritt to “dearest Sally,” and contained a frank, manly avowal of love. Would she be his wife? If she would, let her write and tell him so. But if she did not and could not love him, let her silence reveal the bitter fact; he would wish to spare her the pain of putting her refusal into words, and if she did not write he would understand that she was not for him.

When Willard and Joyce came back into the twilight room they found Miss Sally still sitting by the table, her head leaning pensively on her hand. She had been crying–the cobwebby handkerchief lay beside her, wrecked and ruined forever–but she looked very happy.

“I wonder if you know what you have done for me,” she said to Willard. “But no–you can’t know–you can’t realize it fully. It means everything to me. You have taken away my humiliation and restored to me my pride of womanhood. He really loved me–he was not false–he was what I believed him to be. Nothing else matters to me at all now. Oh, I am very happy–but it would never have been if I had not consented to give you Joyce.”

She rose and took their hands in hers, joining them.

“God bless you, dears,” she said softly. “I believe you will be happy and that your love for each other will always be true and faithful and tender. Willard, I give you my dear child in perfect trust and confidence.”

With her yellowed love letter clasped to her heart, and a raptured shining in her eyes, Miss Sally went out of the room.