morning. She knew the handwriting well, and asked, "How do you
happen to have this, Mr. Atwood?"

"I supposed you would wish to hear from your friend, and so went
up to the hotel. As soon as Mr. Arnold saw me he asked me to give
you that letter."

Mildred bit her lip. Was it an officious or a friendly act? She
was beginning to doubt whether she had fully gauged the character
of this young farmer, but of one thing she was instinctively
certain--his motive was personal, and sprung from an interest in
her which was now more repugnant than ever. Whether this instance
was an obtrusive meddling in her affairs, or an act well meant,
but unwarranted by their relations, she could not tell. However it
might be, she wished the letter had come by any other hands than
his.

She gravely thanked him, and added, "Mr. Atwood, please do not feel
called upon to do anything further for me unless requested."

He grew pale and his lips tightened, for her words and manner hurt
him. His act had been in truth very generous and self-effacing,
but he merely bowed in seeming acquiescence, and turned away.

Arnold's letter ran as follows:

"The memory of that scene yesterday will oppress me forever. Nothing
could have happened that would more clearly convince you that I am
unworthy of your thought. And yet it will be a life-long agony to
know that I am unworthy. When I tell you that I love and honor you