dreadful!'


IV.

When he had left her, she sat still for a little while before the
fire.

'Life is a chance to make mistakes--a chance to make mistakes. Life
is a chance to make mistakes.'

It was a phrase she had met in a book she was reading the other day:
then she had smiled at it; now it rang in her ears like the voice of a
mocking demon.

'Yes, a chance to make mistakes,' she said, half aloud.

She rose and went to her desk, unlocked a drawer, turned over its
contents, and took out a letter--an old letter, for the paper was
yellow and the ink was faded. She came back to the fireside, and
unfolded the letter and read it. It covered six pages of note-paper,
in a small feminine hand. It was a letter Mary Isona had written to
her, Margaret Kempton, the night before she died, more than thirty
years ago. The writer recounted the many harsh circumstances of her
life; but they would all have been bearable, she said, save for one
great and terrible secret. She had fallen in love with a man who was
scarcely conscious of her existence; she, a little obscure Italian
music teacher, had fallen in love with Theodore Vellan. It was as if
she had fallen in love with an inhabitant of another planet: the
worlds they respectively belonged to were so far apart She loved