But the lost chance at St. Eric's, although it was coming to weigh
heavily on his buoyant spirit, was not the worst of his troubles. The
girl from Orange--there lay the sting. He had sent her a note as well,
but there was little he was free to say without betraying Billy, the
note was mostly vague expressions of regret, and Rex knew her
clearheaded directness too well to hope that it would count for much. No
answer had come, and, day by day, he had grown more dejected, hoping
against hope for one.

A knock--the postman's knock--and Rex started and sprang to the door.
One letter, but he could hardly believe his glad eyes when he saw the
address on it, for it was the handwriting which he had come to know
well, had known well, seeing it once--her handwriting. In a moment the
jagged-edged envelope, torn in a desperate hurry to get what it held,
lay one side, and he was reading.

"Dear Mr. Fairfax": the letter ran; "For two weeks I have been very
unjust to you and I want to beg your pardon. Billy was here three days
ago, and what I didn't know and what he didn't know we patched together,
and the consequence is I want to apologize and to make up to you, if I
can, for being so disagreeable. Billy's recollections of that night were
disjointed, but he remembered a lot in spots, and I know now just what a
friend you were to him and how you saved him. I think he was horrid, but
I think you were fine--simply fine. I can't half say it in writing so
will you please come out for over Sunday--mother says--and I'll try to
show you how splendid I think you were. Will you? Yours sincerely"--and
her name.

Would he? Such a radiant smile shone through the little bare room that
the May breeze, catching its light at the window, clapped gay applause