where I was lodged.

"Night, night," were Atherley's parting words. "Don't dream of flirts or
ghosts, but sleep sound."

Sleep sound! the kind words sounded like mockery. Sleep to me, always
chary of her presence, was at best but a fair-weather friend, instantly
deserting me when pain or exhaustion made me crave the more for rest and
forgetfulness; but I had something to do in the interim--a little
_auto-da-fé_ to perform, by which, with that faith in ceremonial, so
deep laid in human nature, I meant once for all to lay the ghost that
haunted me--the ghost of a delightful but irrevocable past, with which
I had dallied too long.

Sitting before the wood-fire I slowly unfolded them: the three
faintly-perfumed sheets with the gilt monogram above the pointed
writing:

"Dear Mr. Lyndsay," ran the first, "why did you not come over
to-day? I was expecting you to appear all the afternoon.--Yours
sincerely, G.E.L."

The second was dated four weeks later--

"You silly boy! I forbid you ever to write or talk of yourself in
such a way again. You are not a cripple; and if you had ever had a
mother or a sister, you would know how little women think of such
things. How many more assurances do you expect from me? Do you wish
me to propose to you again? No, if you won't have me, go.--Yours,
in spite of yourself, GLADYS."