you. I shall love you always, as no man has ever loved a woman
in this world, but it is you who must speak first; for me, the
rest is silence."

The following morning as Helen was leaving the house she found
this letter lying on the hall-table, and ran back with it to her
rooms. A week before she would have let it lie on the table
and read it on her return. She was conscious that this was what
she would have done, and it pleased her to find that what
concerned Philip was now to her the thing of greatest interest.
She was pleased with her own eagerness--her own happiness was a
welcome sign, and she was proud and glad that she was learning to
care.

She read the letter with an anxious pride and pleasure in each
word that was entirely new. Philip's recriminations did not hurt
her, they were the sign that he cared; nor did his determination
not to speak of his love to her hurt her, for she believed him
when he said that he would always care. She read the letter
twice, and then sat for some time considering the kind of letter
Philip would have written had he known her secret--had he known
that the ring he had abandoned was now upon her finger.

She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer,
and then took it out again and re-read the last page. When she
had finished it she was smiling. For a moment she stood
irresolute, and then, moving slowly toward the centre-table, cast
a guilty look about her and, raising her hands, lifted her
veil and half withdrew the pins that fastened her hat.