letter written in a fine, almost microscopic hand. When she had finished the reading, her hands sank upon her lap, and the letter fluttered to the floor.
You will be surprised that I dare to address you, I and no other. I was never bold enough to approach you—but—not to indulge in circumlocutions—I love you! I have loved you for a long time. I have taken council with myself and come to the conclusion that I can find happiness only by your side.
Miss Mary! Perhaps you will be astonished and reject me. Perhaps false reports have blackened my reputation with you, and you will scornfully shrug your shoulders. I must beg you not to hasten to say the decisive word. I make bold to say that in me you will find a husband who will try to make you happy. Only one thing I beg. Consider the offer. Four weeks from today I await the decision—not earlier, not later.
With most passionate devotion,
Miss Mary felt as if she had an attack of vertigo. She was in the thirties, and this was her first love letter. She had never thought of love, and no one had ever paid her any attention. Lightning darted through her head, blood pounded in her temples, and she breathed with effort. She was not in condition to formulate any sort of thought. Only in midst of the flashing, red lightning, she saw the gloomy-looking Cibulka.
She picked up the letter from the floor and read it a second time. How beautifully it was written, how tender! She could not bring herself to con-
