"You might as well be," the doctor growled. "You've been a consummate
fool, and one does about as much harm as the other. Go home now and stay
there; and don't do anything more, for heaven's sake, until you hear
from me."

Windham went home, and was very miserable, as may be supposed. Hearing
nothing for some time, he could not bear it, and wrote to Mary that he
honored and admired her, and thought everything of her that he ever had
or could. In a week he got this reply:

"Mary Mandison has received Philip Windham's letter, and can only reply
that there is nothing to be said."

This stung him more deeply than silence, and he wrote that he was going
to see her on a certain day, and begged her not to deny him. He went at
the time, and she saw him, simply sitting still, and hearing what he had
to say. He hardly knew what to say then, but vowed and protested, and
finally complained of her coldness and cruelty. She replied that she was
not cold or cruel, but only, as she had told him, there was nothing to
be said. In the end he found this was true, and rushed away in despair.

Mary had seemed calm; but when her mother came in that afternoon and
looked for her, she found her in her room, lying on her face.

When she knew who it was, she raised herself silently, looked in her
mother's face a moment, put her arms about her neck, and hid her hot,
dry eyes there as she used to do when a child.

Late that night those two were alone together in the same place, and,