later I hardly dared think it."

Ingmar raised his head. "Then why didn't you write?" he asked.

"But I did write."

"Asking me to forgive you, as if that were anything to write
about!"

"What should I have written?"

"About the other thing."

"How would I have dared--I?"

"I came mighty near not coming at all."

"But Ingmar! do you suppose I could have written love letters to
you after all I had done! My last day in prison I wrote to you
because the chaplain said I must. When I gave him the letter, he
promised not to send it until I was well on my way."

Ingmar took her hand and flattened it against the earth, then
slapped it.

"I could beat you!" he said.

"You may do with me what you will, Ingmar."

He looked up into her face, upon which suffering had wrought a new