were the words: “Vain longing!” Just at this moment some one touched my arm. I looked up and saw Walter. The grieved, angry expression upon his usually placid face surprised me. He was pale; his forehead was scowling.
“I see you have had the same experience that I have had. I have found a lost love letter too,” he said in a voice very different from the jesting manner he tried to assume. “Look here—yesterday evening I found two. Let us compare the writing,”
He drew from his pocket book two little notes, which were just like the one I held in my hand. With a peculiar smile he handed them to me. At a glance I saw that the writing was the same. Upon these likewise a woman's hand had written. Upon one—
“Old friends,” and upon the other “not enough.”
“Give me your letter,” demanded Walter after hesitating; “I will make a collection of them. Perhaps before I reach the end of the trip I shall have a novel.”
The bitter tone of voice provided explanation. I did not wish such a gloomy suspicion to grow in his heart, so I said:
