unopened. The heavy seal on the flap of the envelope was unbroken. She gave him the letter without a word.
He studied it for a moment.
"My writing!" he exclaimed. "Claire, what is this? What letter is this?"
"That letter," she said gently, putting a hand on his arm, "is a proposal from the man I loved."
He looked at her, uncomprehending.
"I will tell you about it," she said.
"Fifty-six years ago, Stephen, when that letter was written, I had two admirers. Oh, more, perhaps but only two that counted. They were you and Robert. Robert was serious and clever, and very much in love with himself, and you were—everything that the heart of a girl like me could desire. You were friends, you two; you were rivals, but friends for all that. You were the better lover, Robert the more ingenious wooer. Robert out-maneuvered you. It was he who got most of my dances at balls, but it was always you I longed to give them to. It was Robert who won the approval of my mother and father; it was you who won mine. He was said to be a coming young man. They told me that you lacked ambition and force—even in those days people talked about force—but it was you I loved. You
