pointment, as a frightened deer to the water, that she had exhausted the pleasures of existence; had proved the gay world and found it all "hollow, hollow, hollow"—the while she, a blase cynic, could never return to relishful participation in the purer and simpler joys that had once satisfied her.
The touch of Dr. Baxter's hand was yet warm upon her head, the grave accents of his admonition and blessing had scarcely left her ear, but she had no thought that the predicted crisis was upon her, that her feet stood upon the very point where turning was to be blessing or curse. No! she was fatigued in body, unsettled in spirits. The eccentric doctor's warning had joined to the reaction succeeding the excitement of the day, to put her out of conceit with her present mode of existence—and Orrin Wyllys was to be out of town for a fortnight. This was the diagnosis she made of her discontent after an hour's melancholy lucubrations over the restless tongues of flame and their scarlet substratum. All her causes of discomfort were ridiculous and childish vagaries, she said severely—excepting the last. That was a real trial. For was not Orrin the oldest and best friend she had in America, outside of Beechdale? She had seen him nearly every day since her coming to Hamilton, and each interview had strengthened the regard she must ever feel for Roy's adopted brother. His interest in her studies, her recreations, her health — in all that went to make up the sum of her earthly happiness, was marked and unvarying. An own brother could not have been kinder, more thoughtful in providing whatever could increase her comfort, or contribute to her pleasure. She had learned to expect his coming on the evenings she spent at home, to watch for glimpses of his graceful figure in a crowd of unfamiliar forms and faces, to refer doubtful questions to his arbitrament and appeal to his sympathy in her moments of sadness and anxiety. In fine he had become necessary to her enjoyment and peace of mind. His going made a void in her every-day life, and in her heart.
Though romantic and immature, she was not weak or mawkish; therefore, she did not repeat—"I never loved a dear gazelle," as she ended her musings with a sigh to the memory of the student in foreign lands, and for him to whom she had that night said "good-by," but she remembered both in her prayers. If she named the latter with more earnestness than marked her thoughts of Roy, it was because she believed his present need of comfort to be greater.
With the morrow came a note.
Dear Jessie: I am scribbling this before sunrise on this dark morning to ask your forgiveness for my abruptness last night. I know I puzzled—may be pained you—kind heart that you are! Do not let a thought of my unhappiness mar the brightness of your existence, now or ever. If you cannot think of me without sadness, forget me. I could bear that better than the thought that I had distressed you. Believe me you have no truer friend than he who signs himself in sorrowful sincerity, yours,
"Doesn't he mean to write to me while he is away?" said Jessie, after reading the six lines through twice, carefully and wonderingly. "He is evidently in great trouble. If I could only help him!"
If he meant her to forget him he had taken extraordinary measures to secure this end. At six o'clock every evening, a bouquet was left at Mrs. Baxter's door for Miss Kirke. Mr. Wyllys's card accompanied the first. The rest needed no label other than the snow-white Cape jessamine, that, lurk in whatever ambush of greenery or bloom it might, was instantly betrayed by its subtle aroma.
