worm fences and half-cultivated fields. Such improvements as there
were appeared in a state of decay, and, so far as Henley could see,
the country was uninhabited. Presently the road entered a wood and
became carpeted with pine tags, over which they trotted noiselessly.
Where were they going? Dorothy had not spoken since starting, and
Paul was too much disconcerted to continue the conversation. He hoped
she would speak first, and yet dreaded anything which it seemed at
all probable she would say. The novelty was intense, but the agony
was growing. At last, without looking at him, she said:

"You haven't told me why you never answered my last letter. You know
we have been expecting you for ages."

Paul coughed, hesitated, and then resolved to tell a part of the
truth, which is often more misleading than the blackest lie.

"I--I did not get it," he answered, "until a day or two ago."

Miss Dorothy looked surprised.

"Strange!" she said; "but, after all, I had my misgivings, for I
never could believe that a letter like that would reach its
destination. But you know you told me--"

"Yes, I know I did," interrupted Paul. "You were perfectly right. You
see I got it at last, and 'all's well that ends well!'"

"Not necessarily; because if you are as careless about other matters
as this, why--I may have--that is, _we_ may have to part before
really knowing each other, and do you know, _I_ should be awfully