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“Link, where are my letters?” said the schoolmaster.

“I didn’t take ’em, Master!” cried Link, crumpling up visibly in his sheer terror. “I didn’t. I never teched ’em! It was Sis. I told her not to–I told her you’d be awful mad, but she wouldn’t tend to me. It was Sis took ’em. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

The schoolmaster believed him. Nothing was too horrible to believe just then. “What has she done with them?” he said hoarsely.

“She–she sent ’em to Una Clifford,” whimpered Link. “I told her not to. She’s mad at you, cause you went to see Una and wouldn’t go with her. She thought Una would be mad at you for writing ’em, cause the Cliffords are so proud and think themselves above everybody else. So she sent ’em. I–I told her not to.”

The schoolmaster said not another word. He turned his back on the whining boy and went to his room. He felt sick with shame. The indecency of the whole thing revolted him. It was as if his naked heart had been torn from his breast and held up to the jeers of a vulgar world by the merciless hand of a scorned and jealous woman. He felt stunned as if by a physical blow.

After a time his fierce anger and shame died into a calm desperation. The deed was done beyond recall. It only remained for him to go to Una, tell her the truth, and implore her pardon. Then he must go from her sight and presence forever.

* * * * *

It was dusk when he went to her home. They told him that she was in the garden, and he found her there, standing at the curve of the box walk, among the last late-blooming flowers of the summer.

Have you thought from his letters that she was a wonderful woman of marvellous beauty? Not so. She was a sweet and slender slip of girlhood, with girlhood’s own charm and freshness. There were thousands like her in the world–thank God for it!–but only one like her in one man’s eyes.

He stood before her mute with shame, his boyish face white and haggard. She had blushed crimson all over her dainty paleness at sight of him, and laid her hand quickly on the breast of her white gown. Her eyes were downcast and her breath came shortly.

He thought her silence the silence of anger and scorn. He wished that he might fling himself in the dust at her feet.

“Una–Miss Clifford–forgive me!” he stammered miserably. “I–I did not send them. I never meant that you should see them. A shameful trick has been played upon me. Forgive me!”

“For what am I to forgive you?” she asked gravely. She did not look up, but her lips parted in the little half-smile he loved. The blush was still on her face.

“For my presumption,” he whispered. “I–I could not help loving you, Una. If you have read the letters you know all the rest.”

“I have read the letters, every word,” she answered, pressing her hand a little more closely to her breast. “Perhaps I should not have done so, for I soon discovered that they were not meant for me to read. I thought at first you had sent them, although the writing of the address on the packet did not look like yours; but even when I knew you did not I could not help reading them all. I do not know who sent them, but I am very grateful to the sender.”

“Grateful?” he said wonderingly.

“Yes. I have something to forgive you, but not–not your presumption. It is your blindness, I think–and–and your cruel resolution to go away and never tell me of your–your love for me. If it had not been for the sending of these letters I might never have known. How can I forgive you for that?”

“Una!” he said. He had been very blind, but he was beginning to see. He took a step nearer and took her hands. She threw up her head and gazed, blushingly, steadfastly, into his eyes. From the folds of her gown she drew forth the little packet of letters and kissed it.

“Your dear letters!” she said bravely. “They have given me the right to speak out. I will speak out! I love you, dear! I will be content to wait through long years until you can claim me. I–I have been so happy since your letters came!”

He put his arms around her and drew her head close to his. Their lips met.