Entering Mr. Warde's house, the door at the end of the hall leading into the garden stood open before her. Many a time in her childish life, Marjorie had sought her friend by way of the study window. Some impulse now made her seek that mode of approach. It was a French window, not quite open to the ground. She had to mount two steps, and step over a low framework, which in former days her small feet had found a sufficient barrier.
The window was wide open. Marjorie tapped upon the pane. Mr. Warde was sitting at his bureau, and she could not see his face.
"May I come in?"
As the loved voice fell upon his ear, the man rose, and pushed the letter he was writing aside.
"Like old days, Marjorie," he smiled, coming forward to meet her, but his face looked pale and drawn.
Something in hers, something to him admirable in the courage which had prompted her visit—for he knew why she had come—some desire to save her pain made him say:
"I was writing to you, Marjorie."
"Yes?" Her troubled eyes sought some comfort from his.
"But now you have come—it was good of you to come, Marjorie—I did not like to disturb you, or I would have saved you. Sit there in the old place—your chair has never been moved."