And so, after three days of isolation, he determined to write to her, and he spent two days at his type-writer draughting the letter over and over again, telling her all about everything; and then tearing it up and taking a fresh sheet, which always met the same fate. Until at last, abandoning in despair the effort to tell her anything in this way, he flung himself down at his desk and scribbled hurriedly:—
"I love you, and that love is the proudest and dearest thing in my life.
"Will you let me see you and tell you?"
That was all. Neither beginning nor signature; only the words thrust into an envelope and addressed to her and given to Moto to deliver upon the instant, lest he should recall it and be back again in the treadmill of indecision.
Moto impassively received the envelope with orders to wait for an answer, and Dick fell to pacing the lanai while he awaited his fate. But Moto returned empty-handed. "Fong say no answer," he stated, woodenly.
"Was she there? Did she read it?" asked Dick, tensely.
"Ye-es," said Moto. "I speak Fong, did she read, or shall I come bime-by for answer. He say no, she read all right, she say no answer. Thas all."
Dick returned to his pacing, his ears alert. Perhaps she would come and call to him through the
