Meanwhile, Alix was greedily devouring the contents of the letter. She stood beside the light over her dressing-table; her heart was pounding furiously, her eyes were radiantly bright.
DEAR ALIX:
I have just this instant arrived in town, and I am scribbling this in the hotel writing-room, with my overcoat still on my back. I shall not go to sleep tonight until I have had your reply. Somehow I will find a way to get this letter to you tonight, I don't know how at present, but where there's a will there's a way. If mother and Charlie Webster are mistaken, or if they have assumed something that is not true, I shall go away again without bothering you. But if you want me, I will come straight out to you. You are in trouble. I am not asking anything for myself, dear,—you know me well enough to understand that,—I am only asking you to let me do anything in the world I can for you. That is why I dropped everything to come. I am happy, you don't know how happy, to be even this close to you. I have always wanted to hang out my shingle in this dear old town. I do not like the East. I am a Westerner and I can't seem to make myself fit in with the East. I shall always be a Hoosier, I fear,—and hope. Just the few minutes I have been here in this familiar old hotel, and the ride through the quiet streets, and getting off the train at the insignificant little depot, and having the hackman,—they are taxi-drivers now,—yell out,—"Hello, Davy," and run up to shake hands with me,—well, I am so homesick I could cry. But you know why I cannot come here to live and practise. If I can't be very, very near to you, Alix darling, I must keep myself as far away as possible. It is the only way. But if I keep on at this rate, you will think I am writing a love letter to you, when, as a matter of fact, I am only asking you if you care to see me and tell me what I can do to help you now,—if you need the help of your
Always devoted
DAVID.
P.S.—If you would rather not see me, don't hesitate to say so. I will understand. And please do not blame mother and Charlie. They would both die for you, dear.
P.S.S.—You will be pleased to know, I am sure, that I have the five hundred I still owe you in my pocket, all in brand new bills, and I think you might give me the happiness of quarrelling face to face with you about the matter instead of under the protection of a two-cent stamp.
D.
She read the letter aloud. When she came to the end she kissed the sheet of paper rapturously and then pressed it to her breast. For a few moments she stood there with her eyes closed, a little smile on her lips, the blush of roses deepening in her cheeks.
Suddenly she roused herself. Hurrying to the desk across the room, she snatched a sheet of note paper from the rack, seated herself, and began to write.