All the day long the September rain had fallen, and when the night
closed in it showed no sign of weariness, but with the same monotonous
patter dropped upon the roof, or beat against the windows of the
pleasantly lighted room where a young man sat gazing at the glowing
grate, and listening apparently to the noise of the storm without. But
neither the winds, nor yet the rain, had a part of that young man's
thoughts, for they were with the past, and the chain which linked them
to that past was the open letter which lay on the table beside him.
For that letter he had waited long and anxiously, wondering what it
would contain, and if his overtures for reconciliation with one who
had erred far more than himself, would be accepted. It had come at
last, and with a gathering coldness at his heart he had read the
decision,--"she would not be reconciled," and she bade him "go his way
alone and leave her to herself."

"It is well," he said; "I shall never trouble her again,"--and with a
feeling of relief, as if a heavy load, a dread of coming evil, had
been taken from his mind, he threw the letter upon the table, and
leaning back in his cushioned chair, tried to fancy that the last few
years of his life were blotted out.

"Could it be so, Ralph Browning would be a different man." he said
aloud; then, as he glanced round the richly furnished room, he
continued--"People call me happy, and so perhaps I might be, but for
this haunting memory. Why was it suffered to be, and must I make a
life-long atonement for that early sin?"

In his excitement he arose, and crushing the letter for a moment in
his hand, hurled it into the fire; then, going to his private drawer,