absorbed in them, that the subject which had lately filled his
thoughts faded entirely therefrom. Some one opened the door, and he
turned to see who was entering. In an instant he was on his feet. It
was Arnest.

The face of the latter was pale and agitated, and his lips quivered.
He came forward hurriedly, extending his hand, not to grasp that of
his old friend, but to hold up his own letter that had been just
returned to him.

"Marston," he said, huskily, "did I send you _this_ note?"

"You did," was the firm but mild answer.

"Thus I cancel it!" And he tore it into shreds, and scattered them
on the floor. "Would that its contents could be as easily
obliterated from your memory!" he added, in a most earnest voice.

"They are no longer there, my friend," returned Marston, with
visible emotion, now grasping the hand of Arnest. "You have wiped
them out."

Arnest returned the pressure with both hands, his eyes fixed on
those of Marston, until they grew so dim that he could no longer
read the old familiar lines and forgiving look.

"Let us forgive and forget," said Marston, speaking in a broken
voice. "We have wronged each other and ourselves. We have let evil
passions rule instead of good affections."