pressed. Well, we went to the ball.—yes, we went,—and the minuet began. And what did I see, large as life and twice as handsome, but your uncle Tom and not Larry Upham. Bow? His bows were perfection. Step? He walked on rose-leaves. My dear, he was adorable. I glared at him. Proud? Of course I was, but you don't suppose I'd let him know it. We met, face to face, in the dance. I curtsied.
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"I hate you," said I.
"I love you," said Tom.
Then he took my hand—so.
"I'll never forgive you!" said I.
"Oh yes, you will!" said he.
"I'm ashamed of you!"
"No, you're proud of me!"
"I'll never speak to you again!"
"Oh yes, you will! You'll speak first."
And I did, Marjorie. I spoke first. Ha! ha! ha! [The laugh drops into sobbing.]
But it's over, Marjorie, isn't it? quite over. All the fun and foolishness, all the scoffing at age and wrinkles—all over! Why, it's like the old song.
Don't you remember? [Sings.]
"Oh, the days of the Kerry dancing!
Oh, the ring of the piper's tune!
Oh, for one of those hours of gladness,
Gone, alas! like our youth, too soon."
He used to sing it. I thought it made me sad, but I didn't know then what sadness was. My dear! my dear! my dear!
There! run away, child, now, and leave me. I must do—what I've—got to do. No! no! I'll call you if I need you. And if—Marjorie, one moment! Come back. If I seem not to be able to bear it, be patient with me. Don't talk to me. Only let me be.
Now! haven't I the nerve to open a desk and take out a packet of letters? O life! life! life! How strange you are, how cruel, how revengeful, after all these years! You let me love a man. You let him grow as near to me as my own blood. He dies, and when I live only by thinking how he loved me, you let me find a little packet of a woman's letters, sacredly cherished in an inner drawer,—sealed, marked, in his own hand, "Her Letters." Once I might have thought them mine; but mine are gone. Tom, you remember. It was that summer when I was sick and melancholy. I said:
"Let's burn our letters for fear some-
