him. He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might
prove more absorbing than himself.

If I had not had Olaf's letter, I might not have weighed Anthony's
attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their
comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy's nature, Anthony's
querulous complaint struck cold.

I think it was then, as we walked toward the inclosure, that I made
up my mind to let Nancy hear what Olaf had to say to her.

She stayed out late that night--there was a dinner and a dance--and
Anthony brought her home. I confess that I felt like a traitor as I
heard the murmur of his voice in the hall.

But when he had gone, and Nancy passed my door on her way to her room, I
called her, and she came in.

I was in bed, and I had the letter in my hand. "I want you to read it,"
I said. "It is from Olaf Thoresen."

She looked at it, and asked, "When did it come?"

"Two months ago. The day that he left."

"Why haven't you shown it to me?"

"I couldn't make up my mind. I do not know even now that I am right in
letting you see it. But I feel that you have a right to see it. It is
you who must answer it. Not I."